


The Hollow Men

by frkmgnt1



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Post-Season/Series 04 AU, Revenge, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frkmgnt1/pseuds/frkmgnt1
Summary: The levee broke, now Dean and Sam are drowning in the deluge. Dean made promises to both his father and brother. Now he has to make good on that promise. The aftermath of season four. AU from WTLB.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. The Hollow Man

This story was written during Season 4, after WTLB, and is AU from that point. It was posted between May and September 2009. 

* * *

-1-  
The Hollow Man

He took the whiskey in one gulp, expecting the burn but forgetting about the pain of swallowing past the ring of bruised and swollen tissue. He grimaced and rubbed his throat. It had felt more like he'd swallowed a flaming golf ball than a smooth shot of whiskey, but he supposed that was to be expected after being strangled nearly unconscious.

He was so not going there.

"Another." His voice was a raw whisper, deep and bloody, and he doubted that the bartender could hear him, even in the empty stillness of the quiet bar. Hell, he could barely hear himself. Of course, his ears were still ringing and his head felt like someone had used it as a bowling ball to get themselves a 300. Maybe twice. So he tapped the bar in front of him in the universally accepted gesture for 'give me another shot of hard liquor right fucking now.'

Apparently, the bartender understood sign language.

The second shot went down easier, if not smoother. It still burned, and it felt like his Adam's apple was wearing a girdle, but alcohol has excellent anesthetic properties. It burned and numbed as it went. He planned to kill a bottle of it tonight, get himself good and polluted. He'd earned some anesthetizing. In fact, if he had it his way, he'd be good and brain damaged by the end of the night.

A sharp pain ricocheted through his head with the heat and speed of a .22, reminding him that he already was damaged, brain, body and soul.

The bartender poured him an unasked-for drink, three fingers of Jack Daniels, and Dean muttered a rough thank you. He nursed this one a bit, rolling the liquor around his mouth, letting it settle into all the small cuts his teeth had made in his lips and tongue when his brother...No. Not his brother. His brother was dead. ...When _Sam —_ or the thing that walked around calling itself Sam — had decided to use his face as a punching bag.

"Fuck that." He wasn't thinking about him, or It, or the events of the past weeks ever again. He'd been betrayed by everyone, including God, and he was done. Done with giving a shit.

He tossed the drink back, realized that another one was sitting in front of him, and tossed that one back too. Everything was starting to soften around the edges, lines all blurring into one another as his head filled with a warm static.

"S'Good." He was talking to himself, so he went cold to his boots when a voice answered him.

"Can we talk?"

It was so meek and crushed that it hit Dean like a baseball bat to the groin. If he'd been standing, he'd have collapsed under the weight of the blow.

Guess it was a good thing he was sitting down.

"Thought I told you not to come back." That was good. At least his voice hadn't cracked.

The swallow was audible. "Dean..."

"Don't!" He was shooting for cold and steady. Detached. He always had great aim. "You need to get away from me."

"Dean, I'm sorr—"

"NO!" He barked through his swollen throat. The word was a razor blade shredding his vocal chords, and he rubbed at the aching burn for a second. Took a second to gather composure because he was done hurting himself for this man. Then softer he spat "You don't get to apologize. "

He still hadn't turned to look at the man behind him, but he could feel him. All six and half feet of him hovering maybe twenty inches behind him. Close, but not looming. But arm's reach for sure. He took another moment to steel himself, because he needed to say this face-to-face. Needed this to be understood. And this man wouldn't believe him without looking him dead in the eye.

He turned.

The stranger with the beloved face looked back at him, dewy eyed and contrite. He was just as beaten and bruised as Dean. The battle they'd waged had been almost as unkind to him as it had to Dean. He had bruises splashed across the swollen canvas of his face, interspersed with cuts and abrasions.

Dean didn't feel anything. Not a stitch of concern, no desire to check for more serious injury. He was numb. And that numbness both filled him with a strange cocktail of fear and peace. Fear, because he really was hollow now. If an injured Sam couldn't stir feelings in him, then there was nothing left. Peace because he was tired of this man running over him. Tired of being hurt and scared and worried. Just. So. Tired.

"I need you to listen to me and understand what I'm saying." Cautiously hopeful eyes met his. Dean had to screw his conviction one more turn, hoping that twist wouldn't strip all the threads and force everything to come apart all over the floor. "I'm done. I'm done fighting with you and for you. You don't get to apologize. Not for this. Not for anything. Not to me. Not ever again."

"Dean..."

 _"I'm talking here!"_ A shout, an order for silence, and he clutched his throat again. Murky hazel eyes tracked the movement and Dean dropped his hand. This wasn't about guilt. This was about reality and he needed to set everything straight, and he couldn't afford interruption. He couldn't listen to a word. Sam had a slick and silvered tongue. Hell, he wanted to be a lawyer, after all. He'd always been able to talk Dean in circles. And Dean would fold, because he'd always folded for Sammy. But he couldn't. Not now. Because Sammy was dead now and his murderer was wearing his face.

"I mean I know I'm no genius, but I never thought...no, I never believed that Dad could be right. That _**you**_ would be right. That I could be so goddamn wrong and blind about anything. Especially when it comes to evil." He had to pause, to breathe, to watch. He waited for understanding to click in Sam's eyes. And he knew the minute that Sam understood him. Saw realization hit him like a five hundred pound anvil. Watched him shrink under the weight of that realization. "I never believed that there was any chance that my brother could be evil. I would have bet my life and soul that it was fucking impossible." _I have. I did. "_ And even if..." he swallowed, refused to finish the thought, "I never thought that I wouldn't be able to save him."

The hazel eyes wouldn't meet his, but that was fine. Dean was going to finish, because he deserved to finish. Sam needed to hear this as much as Dean needed to say it. "But I couldn't. I couldn't save you. You wouldn't let me. Didn't trust me at all."

"That's not true." It was so small, choked with emotion, that Dean almost didn't hear it.

Trailed off and muttered "Trusted a demon but not me. Let her poison you." He deflated, turned back to the bar, looking for another drink, some poison of his own, but the bartender was nowhere to be seen. _Son of a bitch._

"Don't come near me again, Sam. I swear to God," and yeah, he believed in God now, since he'd been completely screwed over by the bastard, "that if I see you, I will kill you. I will fulfill that promise." _It's the only thing I can do for my family any more._

"Dean, you can't mean this," the voice sounded small, young. Broken. It should have plucked every nerve like a harp, but Dean was past feeling now. "We can fix this. We can get past this...We're brothers,"

"No. Not anymore we're not. I'm not sure we ever really were. I don't know you. I never did and I never will." He heard Sam's sharp intake of breath indicating recognition of the words he'd thrown at a prostrate, bleeding Dean that day in that hotel room. Dean had thought that hurling a barb and inflicting a small measure of the pain he'd felt that day would give him satisfaction. But hollow men don't feel satisfaction. Hollow men don't feel anything. "This is your one chance here, Sam. Get out of town. Take your demon bitch, and run for your life. If I see you ever again..." couldn't finish but didn't have to. He'd already said all there was to say.

He didn't hear the retreating footsteps but he felt the presence behind him leave. He deflated, nearly collapsed off the barstool, but managed to catch himself on the edge of the bar. He reached over the bar and grabbed a bottle, poured himself a water glass of it and drank it. Continued to drink until the bottle was empty. He put his head down on the bar a minute, realized that the room was spinning, his stomach was churning and his bladder was near explosion. He pulled himself up, but his right leg folded under him and he thought he was going to face plant right there on the mung covered bar floor. Strong arms caught him and pulled him to his feet.

"Come on, son. Let's get you out of here." Dean's vision swirled. He blinked his eyes, focused on the brim of the baseball hat. Wondered if he'd ever seen Bobby without that hat, but the question slipped away from him like water through an open hand. Bobby pulled Dean's arm across his shoulders, took most of his weight off his bum leg. "Christ, Dean. How much did you drink?"

"Enough."

"Well, you better not puke on me boy."

"No promises."

They were moving now. It took all his concentration to shuffle his feet and keep his leg from buckling under him. "Well, we're taking your car. Just in case. You can deal with that smell in your upholstery."

"Sounds fair" Dean slurred as Bobby lowered him into the front seat of the Impala. "Thanks, Bobby. I owe you." He leaned his head on the window and was out cold before Bobby got in the driver's side.

"Yeah, I'll add it to your tab, boy. Let's go so you can sleep it off."

* * *

TBC..

More to come


	2. The Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam had better run for his life...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU after Lucifer Rising. The first three chapters of this story were written right after WTLB, so the story is AU from that point.

-2-  
The Monster

The door closed behind him, but Sam didn't hear it. Couldn't hear anything except his brother banishing him from his life.

_If I ever see you again..._

Sam looked up the street but couldn't seem to make sense of what he was seeing. Everything was a jumble of lines and colors, light and shadow. He swiveled his head, looking back and forth, trying to figure out what to do now.

_Run for your life_

He didn't have anywhere to go but he started moving. His whole body ached, his head was pounding and he concentrated on that pain. Because it was so much less that the pain inside.

_Thought I told you to stay away from me._

Sam fisted his eye, driving his knuckle deep in an attempt to push the tears back in. He picked up his pace a bit in an attempt to widen the distance between him and his brother.

_Not anymore we're not._

His brother who denied him. Who'd disowned him.

Sam was an orphan. It wasn't anything new. He'd been orphaned for four months, watched his brother die right before his eyes. But at least then he knew that his brother died loving him. Had died FOR him.

His brother hadn't thought he was a monster.

He sniffed, and choked, realized that he was sobbing. How the hell had things gone this far? He knew things were getting bad, but he'd never thought...never believed that things would be irreparable. Never believed that there was anything he and his brother couldn't work out. They'd said awful things to each other over the years. Sam had walked out, Dean had thrown punches. Hell, Dean had forgiven Sam for shooting him. Twice. Sam had never believed that they wouldn't be able to put it back together. He thought that once he'd ended Lilith and the impending apocalypse, that he'd be able to explain everything to Dean. And Dean would listen because Dean _always_ listened to him. They would work it out because no matter what, they were brothers.

_You walk out that door, don't you ever come back._

He'd thought the words hurt the first time he'd heard them. But his father and he had spent years butting heads, tearing into each other. He was used to his father's anger. And he'd had his own anger to match it. So he'd grabbed his bags, armed himself with righteous pride and anger and left to do what he needed to do. Because he was right.

And he'd been so sure he was right this time. When Dean repeated his father's words, all Sam heard was the anger. It had thrown him right back into that day, and Sam reacted the same way he'd always reacted when presented with an ultimatum. He walked his own path, because he couldn't abide anyone making his decisions for him. Not anymore. But his own anger had gotten in the way and he'd somehow missed his brother's true motivation. He'd heard the anger and the ultimatum, sure. But he'd missed the resignation that was so obvious. He saw the events that day through his own rage and the thrumming high and rush of hot blood. He somehow forgot that his brother was not like their father or Sam. Dean didn't wield his anger as a weapon; he held it as a shield. So the anger that Sam saw was just a mask to the defeat beneath it. And had Sam been in his right mind he would have recognized what he was hearing and seeing for what it was. After all, who knew Dean better than Sam? Unfortunately, Sam had been too wrapped up in his own head, in his own need, in his own...addiction.

He could be honest about it now, with himself if no one else. Dean had been right about the blood. Hindsight and clarity offered a great view of just how out of control he'd been. He'd strangled Dean, watched his face turn purple . He felt the pulse thrumming and slowing beneath his fingers; felt the airway seal and strain. It had felt so good. The power he'd held over his brother. To finally shut him up. To finally _win_.

But now, in a clearer light, all Sam felt was nauseated. He'd almost killed his brother. More than that, he'd _wanted_ to kill him. Was so close to just hanging on until the all the light and life disappeared from his eyes. It had taken every tiny bit of restraint...no, restraint was the wrong word. It had taken every bit of humanity he'd had left to let go and walk away. Because he could admit now that he was becoming something else; that he _became_ something else. The blood that Ruby was feeding him made him into a monster.

Another benefit of hindsight was that he now understood that that had been her intention all along: to strip him of his humanity. She'd made him trust her then need her until she could string him out. She isolated him, stripped him of his ties, until she he was so far gone that he believed she was the only one he needed. She fed him all the justifications he would need, pumped him up with promises and flattery; with half truths and flat out lies. 

Sam could lay the blame at her feet, but the truth was, it was his own fault. He knew that he couldn't trust a demon, knew somewhere inside him that, whatever her intentions, they could not be good. Good was against her very nature. But he'd been weak and alone, and he needed someone close so badly. He turned his back on what he knew and bought every word she fed him hook, line and sinker. He'd let her turn him into a monster, let her finish what that yellow eyed bastard started the night his mother died. Let her turn him into the monster he'd feared himself to be ever since his father died. Hell, maybe his whole life.

Dean was the one who'd convinced him that he was a good man, that no matter what had been done to him, it didn't change who he was. Dean had never treated Sam like he was anything but his little brother. Precious and human. But that was done. The way Dean had looked at him in that bar proved that all his big brother saw now was another creature to hunt.

His cell phone rang in his pocket. Sam startled, let a tiny bit of hope shine in his heart that his brother was calling to take it all back. He dug the phone out, checked the caller id and answered the call.

"Bobby?" Sam was confused. Last time he saw Bobby he'd...they hadn't parted well.

"Sam. They all know."

"Know what? Who's they? Bobby what...?"

"You need to go to ground boy. Do you hear me? They're going to be hunting you now."

Sam went cold and still. "Who's hunting me?"

"Everyone. Anyone you can think of. Rufus caught wind of what happened. You can't trust anyone now."

Sam hadn't trusted anyone for a very long time. That was the root cause of his current problem. "What about you?" Sam kept his voice steady, emotionless.

A brief pause followed by an indignant, "How could you even ask me that, boy? You think I'd call you and warn you if I was with them?" Bobby was right. He'd never been anything but loyal to them. He deserved more credit.

"I'm sorry, Bobby." And he was, but he still needed to know where he stood. His own brother had threatened to kill him only minutes before. "What about Dean?"

"You gotta give your brother his space son. He's hurting right now in a lotta ways. It's gonna take time."

"That's not what I meant, Bobby. "

The line was silent for long enough that Sam thought he'd lost the call. Turned out, Bobby was just playing catch up. "You can't possibly think that Dean would hunt you!"

 _If you'd asked me two hours ago, I'd have bet my soul against it._ "He just told me he would."

Indignation gave way to urgency. "You saw Dean? Where?" Bobby's voice stirred fear low in Sam's belly, although he'd be damned if he knew why.

"A bar in White River. Why? What's going on?"

"Damn it. I'll go get him. You get the hell out of town. Get as far as you can and hide." Sam was still trying to figure out the hidden meaning behind Bobby's urgent tone. "Don't trust anyone, Sam. Don't contact anyone, not even me. They're coming for you full force. They'll track you any way they can." Some of the weight lifted from him, knowing someone still cared about him. That someone's concern was for his well being, and not what he might do. "And take care of yourself." The call disconnected. Sam stood and absorbed what he'd been told. Something nagged at him, like he'd missed something vital in what Bobby had said. But he didn't have time to analyze. If Bobby was right, he needed to disappear from the radar right now. He was fair game. The hunters were all gunning for him. And he was alone.

Sam wasn't sure what to do. It wasn't that he couldn't take care of himself. Hell, he'd done it at college, and then done it again for the four months after Dean. Somehow, he didn't feel like his current situation could compare to either of his previous experiences. Even though he'd been on his own, he'd never felt this alone before. At Stanford, he'd known Dean was a telephone call away. When Dean had been in Hell, Sam had his brother's memory and love. But that was all gone now.

_The Monster is on his own._


	3. The Renegade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month in the life of Sam Winchester...

-3-  
The Renegade

Sam sat in an empty hunting cabin in a small mountain town in upstate New York, sipping a scotch at 9:30 am. He was some 150 miles northwest of New York City, and well up on some nameless mountain: high enough that there was a crisp chill in the air despite the impending summer.

The past few weeks had Sam hoofing and hitching, sticking and moving. He couldn't afford to steal cars with hunters on his trail—they knew all the tricks and would be vigilant of any and all stolen cars moving through and across state lines. If he got on a bus or train he might as well slit his own throat. They'd have him in hours if he got on a greyhound.

Motels were out of the question. Stolen credit cards would be tracked down with an efficiency that would put the FBI to shame, so Sam had been brushing up on his camping and squatting skills. The incredibly depressed housing market had finally netted a decent result: there were endless numbers of empty houses just sitting pretty and ripe for Sam to move in for a day or two.

So Sam had hop-scotched his way across half the country until he finally found himself a decent home base. The cabin sat high on the mountain surrounded by about 100 acres of woodland and tall grass. It was set far enough back from the road that Sam could camouflage the driveway and the entire structure just melted into its surroundings.

On top of all of that it had its own well water, a small man-made fishing pond, plenty of deer if necessary, solar panels and its own generator. Hell, these people had even installed a flat screen TV and DVD player. He guessed if one was stuck out in the woods living off the land, one shouldn't be without the latest X-Men or Batman movie, right? Sam had taken one good look around the place and knew that he had a place to call home.

He also knew that Dean would have loved this place.

It had aggravated him that the voice in his head telling him that this place was perfect was Dean's. The internal 'Sweet' was so distinct that it sent a sharp pang through Sam's gut with all the precision of a hot bullet. It was the first time that he'd thought about his brother since that night in the bar. The weeks he'd spent traversing 1500 miles of the country he'd actively _not_ thought about his brother. He'd refused to allow his mind to go anywhere near the vicinity of his brother. And he had to remain vigilant, because every time his guard dropped, he'd think of something he should tell Dean, or see something he'd want to point out to Dean, or have the urge to play a practical joke on Dean.

Dean didn't want anything to do with him. The realization would nail him with all the grace of a 2x4 across the face. Sam would chastise himself, and then resume _Not Thinking_ about Dean.

Sam was practiced in the art of Not Thinking about people. He'd first been introduced to the idea when he'd left for Stanford and his father had told him not to come back. He'd spent the first half of his freshman year Not Thinking about the family that he'd lost. Of course, he'd had classes, new friends, and eventually Jess, to distract him, until distraction was no longer necessary.

Then Jess had died. He'd spent weeks looking around for her, reaching out in bed for her, and thinking of things he wanted to tell her, only to have the memory that she was gone rip apart the wound in his heart and make him bleed out all over again. Of course, he'd had Dean to help him that time. Dean had kept him distracted with research, and food, and mindless banter, and blaring 80's rock. Dean had taken up all the air in the room, spent all his waking hours being a jerk and a friend and...a brother: the brother that he'd missed like an amputated limb while he'd been at school. Dean had filled his life up so completely that he'd been able to Not Think about Jess, until one day he could think about her without breaking down into sobs.

Then his father died and it was easy to Not Think about his dad, because he was too busy worrying about Dean. Too busy trying to hold Dean up, keep him safe and get him to speak that Sam didn't have time to break apart. Didn't have time to wallow in the grief and regret that tempted and nagged at him.

Then Dean died. And Sam didn't want to Not Think about him. He was all Sam thought about. Every minute of every day, Sam thought about Dean in hell. Thought about how he was going to save Dean from hell. He didn't need to avoid thoughts of Dean, because the more infected and open that particular wound, the less likely Sam would get distracted from his mission to save Dean.

But now...there were no distractions. No classes to go to, no papers to write, no girlfriends to hold and love, to whisper secrets in his hair, or stay in bed with on lazy Sunday mornings. No older brothers chewing with their mouths open, or short sheeting his bed. No brother to support him, or for him to support. No mission to consume his thoughts. Nothing but the immediate urgency of bobbing and weaving, and setting up a perimeter around his new mountain fortress.

"Sam." The voice cut into his Not Thinking, startled him to his feet. Instinct drew his gun before his neurons could fire. _Not good to be sleep deprived and drinking._ His exhausted brain took a half a second to catch up to him, which is too long if he wanted to stay alive with trained hunters gunning for him.

"What the hell are you doing here? What, are you here to kill me, Castiel?"

Castiel. The name was a statement, question and curse all at once to Sam. Sam hadn't seen him since...that night, and to be honest, he'd hoped he never see him ever again.

"Kill you?" He'd said the words like he couldn't fathom Sam's meaning. _Hell, maybe he can't._

Sam lowered his gun. It wouldn't do him any goddamn good anyway. "Yeah, you know. Put an end to the monster. The atrocity."

Castiel's eyes softened and Sam wanted to put a well placed fist _through_ his face. _Don't you feel sorry for me you bastard!_ "But you are not a monster, Sam. You are pure now. Don't you know that?"

"Right. I feel real pure." He swallowed his morning cocktail as a punctuation.

Castiel took a slow step forward and a casual glance around the room. Then he fixed his eyes on Sam, pinned him in place like a specimen for dissection. "Feel it or not, you must realize that what was in you is now gone."

Sam tilted his head and really looked at this Angel/Man that was standing before him. His long black coat, his peaches and cream skin. The empty, complacent look in his eyes. "Yeah, I've been wondering about that as I've been running for my life for the past month. I mean, I was all heart of darkness, Big Bad I'll eat your liver, and now, I don't know. I'm just..."

"Sam." Castiel finished for him.

"Yeah." And he was. Because he'd reached for that power over the days and weeks of solitude. Reached into the deep places where it had lain, waiting for him to call it forth to wield. But it was gone. Not dormant, as it had been since he was an infant. But just...gone. "So, what the hell happened?"

"You have been cleansed." He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world.

"What the hell does that even mean? How?"

"Your brother." And Castiel saw the confusion, the absence of understanding in Sam's eyes. "Your brother swore an oath to me. Swore loyalty to my father. I needed him to swear. And he did, while you were screaming in that room, he swore that he would do as we told him and play his part to prevent Lucifer's rising."

Sam's head was spinning. Dean had agreed to be — what? — toy soldier for the angels' army? For God's army? "Why would he do that?"

"So you wouldn't have to." And Sam folded on himself. His knees wouldn't stay locked anymore and he sat heavily in the chair he'd just vacated. The chair was still warm from his body heat. Which was good, because Sam had gone so cold that he was shivering.

"He swore to be our soldier and so became the tip of God's arrow. He became our weapon and our Knight. He was granted light, power and grace to wield against the forces of darkness."

"Like me,” Sam whispered.

"Yes. Like you." Sam buried his face in his hands. "And once your brother had sworn to me, I released you from your bonds."

Sam's rage eclipsed his shame, burned it away. "You what? You? Why would you do that?"

"Because you needed to be there, Sam. You needed to complete your journey, your metamorphosis and unleash that darkness on your brother. It was the only way that he could cleanse you."

"Cleanse me?"

"Yes. Extinguish the evil that had festered in your blood. He became the instrument of your destruction and salvation. If you had remained in that room to 'detox,' as your brother called it, the evil would have continued to rage through you. The need and the lust and the hatred would have consumed your body and your soul. And you would have died and been damned."

He didn't know what to think. He also didn't have time or the inclination to mull over all the details right now. So he did what had become natural: he put aside his regrets and thoughts for later and zeroed in on the true question.

"Why are you here?" _Just to break me again. To make me feel worse about the loss of the only family I have left._

Castiel sighed. It was strange to see such a human gesture from a creature that was so divorced from the concept of humanity in Sam's mind. "Dean needs you."

"Maybe you haven't been paying attention here, Cas,” the name spat with as much derision as Sam could muster in the wake of emotional devastation, "but Dean and I are kind of on the outs. In fact, my brother threatened to kill me if he ever saw me again."

"Yes, but this isn't about you. Let me rephrase: Dean needs your help."

Sam couldn't contain the bitterness or sarcasm. More than a month of hurt can distill into a healthy dose of bitter if mixed and bottled properly. "Why don't you just 'help' him? He's your pet project, isn't he? Maybe you should ride shotgun with him, become his hunting buddy? I heard the position's open."

"Dean is...angry with me."

"Join the club. Maybe we can get T-Shirts and tweet all about it."

"We don't have time for this, Samuel." The use of his given name pissed him off. "Your brother is in danger."

"What's new? Dean's always in danger. It's kind of our way of life."

"Yes, well this time he's in danger from the people who are hunting you."

Sam went still. So still he could hear the blood thrum through his veins and weave through his organs. And it clicked, what had been nagging him when he spoke to Bobby that night on the phone.

_You saw Dean?...I'll go get him...They'll track you any way they can._

Bobby had practically taken out an ad in the paper to broadcast his concern. Sam had been too busy licking his own wounds and then running to even give Bobby a second thought.

"Tell me. What happened? Did they...did they find him?"

"Yes. They have him, but have hidden him from my eyes." Which meant that they knew way more than Sam would have expected. Knowing about the demons was one thing — they were hunters after all. But the angels...Sam hadn't really thought anyone would have known about them.

Sam grabbed his emergency pack by the door and slung it on his back. "Tell me everything on the way."

* * *

If you liked it, let me know!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original 2009 Notes:
> 
> Notes: This one is literally hot off the presses. I wrote it between work this afternoon and right now, and wanted to post it before LOST tonight and definitely wanted it up before tomorrow. Mostly because tomorrow night this entire story will probably be moot. (Doesn't mean I won't continue, but if I don't put this up before the Season Finale, I might be tempted to change it.) I'd actually wanted to do a Dean chapter, but he wasn't speaking to me the past three days. Sam, on the other hand, wouldn't shut up. So, here's Sam's chapter, before Dean's. Hopefully, I won't be discouraged tomorrow night. Enjoy!


	4. The Joker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cause I'm a picker. I'm a grinner. I'm a lover. And I'm a sinner. Play my music in the sun. I'm a joker. I'm a smoker. I'm a midnight toker. Get my lovin' on the run...

-4-  
The Joker

_One Month Earlier..._

If there was one universal truth to which Dean subscribed, it was that waking up the morning after a bender totally sucked ass. All the pain that he'd been in last night prior to dancing with Jack Daniels was now amplified by dehydration. All his muscles ached despite the fact that he remained dead still. His mouth tasted like something died in it. He tried to swallow the taste, but his tongue had adhered to the roof of his mouth. Once he unstuck his tongue, he found that all he'd managed to do was make the taste even worse.

Dean groaned and rolled over, his head spinning off its axis before resuming the steady rotation of a good case of the hangover spins. He resigned himself to just laying here until sleep or death took him-he didn't particularly care which one. Of course, that plan was immediately derailed by his bladder wailing its imminent rupture if he didn't attend to it Right. Fucking. Now.

"Crap." The voice that had been a mere croak last night was now as dehydrated as the rest of him. He now sounded more like he'd had a laryngectomy, and would never be able to speak again without some sort of mechanical aid.

But his voice could wait. His bladder, however, could not.

Experience and the axe splitting pain in his head suggested that he exercise caution when opening his eyes. Light and hangovers were as lethal a combination as gasoline and a lit match. So instead of opening his eyes, Dean just cracked them a bit.

And was speared through his brain for the trouble.

Squeezing them shut only made his head pound harder, and now the room was spinning again like he was on a tilt-a-whirl.

"You throw up on my couch, I'll kill you where you lay, boy."

Dean didn't have the energy, the inclination or the voice to explain to Bobby that his stomach hadn't actually checked in for roll call yet, and that the two organs that were vying for the lead position as the cause of Dean's misery this morning were his brain and his bladder. Instead he just said "aaachrisucks," which pretty much said it all as far as he was concerned.

"What was that?" Bobby sounded amused which pissed Dean off no end.

Dean didn't answer just concentrated on making his way to the bathroom to piss. But first, he would have to get himself out of a horizontal position.

"Still think drinking an entire bottle of whiskey with a concussion is a good idea?"

Dean rolled off the couch to land on his knees next to it. The spinning got worse for a minute and his stomach woke up a bit, thinking maybe it was time to check in for roll call after all. But a few seconds on hands and knees beside the couch lulled his iron gut to sleep again and gave him the edge he needed to get vertical. After all, it was always easier to get up from hands and knees than from your back.

Dean pushed himself up, one leg at a time, and almost went right down when his wrenched right knee buckled on him. But he caught himself and managed to stand up straight. He swayed a bit in a nonexistent breeze. _And for my next trick, ladies and gents, I will stand up straight with both eyes open!_

Vertical and proud, Dean cracked his eyes and did a quick sweep for location. Ugly couch, piles of books, empty bottles...definitely Bobby's living room. His bladder gave him a good kick in the ass in the form of a hard spasm and he took off in the direction of the bathroom with all the speed and grace of a ninety nine year old. He heard Bobby chuckling behind him and threw a mental _fuck you_ at him.

Fifteen minutes later found Dean feeling about 50 percent better. Showered, shaved, teeth brushed and bladder empty, he felt like a new man. Or at least a man only twice his age. The dead thing in his mouth had been removed and now his stomach was fully awake and looking for food, water and coffee. Preferably in Super Size quantities.

He walked barefoot into the living room, hoping not to encounter Bobby. He wasn't up for Bobby's particular brand of sadism and sarcasm right now. He heard loud voices coming from the back of the house, so he scooped up the water and two aspirin Bobby had left out for him, downed both in about three seconds, and drifted toward the voices.

"He ain't here. Now, get out before I show you how I treat unwelcome guests." Bobby was yelling, which in and of itself wasn't anything new. But there was something unfamiliar in Bobby's voice. Something Dean had only heard once or twice before.

Fear.

Dean's hackles rose, and he went back for his boots and a gun. Because if Bobby was scared, then whatever or whomever was with him was a threat. And Dean wasn't going to be barefoot and weaponless in the face of a threat.

Dean was back at the door listening in under a minute. The voices were low and muted. A stark contrast to Bobby's yelling. Dean couldn't hear it all, but the tone told the tale, and the tale was tragedy. Whoever these people were (because Dean could hear at least two distinct voices) they weren't here to trade recipes or swap gossip.

"Just tell us. We have no beef with you, Bobby." Soft spoken. Deadly.

"Why would you protect him?" Angry, volatile.

Dean had a really bad feeling he knew exactly what these people wanted. Or should he say, who these people wanted. And while he'd been raging last night, and hell, he was still pretty angry today, no one was going to hunt his baby brother.

So Dean did what he did best. Fuck planning and went in guns blazing.

Literally.

It might have worked, all balls and brash, if there hadn't been a third guy standing behind the door waiting for him.

So instead of saving the day, Dean took a hard gun butt to the back of the head. His already aching head, at that.

He went down in a heap on the floor, clinging to consciousness by sheer will alone.

"Got him, boys." Smarmy, and satisfied.

Bobby was playing peacemaker, all appeasing tone and reasonable 'let's talk about this, fellas.'

Yeah, like that would work!

"Look, let him go. He ain't the one your lookin for."

"Doesn't matter." Smarmy asshole said. "The way I hear, these two are never more than a stone's throw apart." _A stone's throw?! What kind of douche bag says things like that._

"Too bad your news is outdated, douche, because I haven't the faintest clue where my brother is." Said 'Douche' responded with a steel toe to the ribs, which to be honest, Dean had kind of expected. Hell, he figured he probably even deserved it.

"Knock it off!" Bobby growled, sounded dangerous. Dean couldn't see his face because he was too busy concentrating on inhaling and exhaling steadily. "This your new way of doing things, Mac? What the hell kind of company do you keep? Sneaking up on people, hitting a man while he's down?"

"I wouldn't be casting stones if I were you, Bobby. Or talking about the company I keep while you're hanging around with demons and their consorts." That was Smarmy. At least Dean had a name now for the Douche that had kicked him.

"It doesn't matter anyway. If the other one isn't here we'll just take this one with us. He'll come for him eventually."

Dean bust out laughing on the floor. "I hate to break it to you guys, but Sam is long gone. He's not coming looking for me."

For some reason, Smarmy Douche decided he deserved another kick for that comment, this one in his stomach. A bottle of liquor plus swift kick equals vomit apparently, and Dean booted all over himself and the floor. He knew he should be pissed because, hell, he hadn't deserved to be kicked again. But his spinning head could only come up with enough ire because, DUDE, he just showered!

"Dude, I just showered." But no one heard his croaking because they were all shouting at each other. He heard Bobby yelling, then some crashing. More yelling, more voices, then a loud sharp crack which Dean's broken head registered as a gunshot. He focused and opened his eyes to spot Bobby laying on the floor in a widening pool of blood. There were loud voices all around, arguing maybe, or partying: he didn't know. Dean heard screaming, and realized it was him. Bobby's skin was paling while he watched and no one was plugging the hole to stop the blood from pouring all over the floor. Dean was reaching, crawling, repeating one word over and over

"Bobby...Bobby...Bobby!" Another pain in the back of his head and he was gone.

* * *

TBC...


	5. The Perfect Drug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it was the Demerol, but Bobby felt relief for the first time in...he didn't even know how long. Sometimes it felt like he'd been holding his breath since Cold Oak. Sam laid out on that blood stained mattress, pale and still. It had been one long roller coaster drop ever since. For the first time, he thought maybe things might work out.
> 
> He looked over at Castiel and felt safe. 
> 
> Oh yeah. It was definitely the Demerol.

-5-  
The Perfect Drug

_Present day..._

"Bobby. Hey Bobby, can you hear me?" The voice was pulling him out his Demerol delirium and he wasn't happy about it. Probably another nurse waking him up to give him a sleeping pill. Or maybe they needed to take his blood pressure for the seven hundredth time. Hospitals were so efficient! God, he needed to get the hell out of here!

"Bobby, you awake?" The voice was familiar, and not in the vague way that all the nurses and orderlies had become familiar over the weeks. This one sounded like...

"Sam?" He cracked his eyes and saw that mop of hair. The face below it was drawn, like he'd aged a year in the past month. He was pale and pinched, his eyes shadowed and sad. "You look like hell, boy." That got him a genuine flash of white teeth and dimples. Bobby realized then just how long it had been since he'd seen Sam smile.

"I know," Sam sniffled. Holding back tears, Bobby realized. That was no good. The time for crying was long passed. "But you look good, Bobby."

"Christ, you're a terrible liar. How the hell have avoided getting caught all these years? Especially with those terrible ID's to boot." Sam let out a chuckle. Sincere but sad, and God, did this kid always linger on the verge of tears? Sometimes Bobby wanted to beat the angst right out of these boys. "What are you doing here, Sam?"

And Sam went from sad to broken, suddenly crumpling with obvious rejection. God, he'd have to buy these two tutus to go with their fragile, delicate feelings! "That ain't what I meant, boy. I don't know which one of you is worse. I meant, why are you here instead of out looking for your brother."

Relief and worry were a strange mixture on a face. He didn't think he'd ever seen it before, and he was sure he couldn't pull it off. "What the hell happened, Bobby? Who did this?" And that had been the million dollar question for the better part of his recovery.

"To be honest, I'm a little fuzzy on the details. Doc says it’s normal. Some sort of post trauma amnesia or what have you. Took some time but I finally remembered the three of them ambushing me and your brother in my own damn house."

Sam was nodding now. "Do you know who they were?" Sam had switched into interview mode. And now Bobby understood how maybe he got away with impersonating police officers and FEDS, because he was good at pulling stories out of people. Even stories people don't want to think about.

"I know one of 'em. Roy MacKensey. I always considered him a decent and upstanding guy, as far as hunters go. I mean, I wouldn't have trusted him to water my plants.... If I had plants, that is. But I've trusted him enough to help him out on a few hunts over the years."

"You hunted with this guy? And he did this?" Sam was so naive sometimes. He'd spent so much time hunting with family-with people that would lay down their lives for him, that he didn't realize that most other hunters were lucky to find someone that wouldn't steal their wallets. Winchester honor. It was why he loved these boys like family.

"Strictly research, Sam. There aren't many I trust with my back." After he'd met the Winchesters, that number had dwindled to exactly three. "But I wouldn't have believed he'd gut shoot me, if that makes you feel better."

"I don't understand, Bobby. Why would they do this?"

"Can't figure crazy, Sam. I mean, I knew they were gonna come for you. Rufus had all but said so. Figured they might come for Dean. I didn't think they'd do it so quickly, and I didn't expect they'd—“

"Shoot you." Sam finished for him. Eyes drifted for a bit and Bobby could almost hear the wheel turning in his head. Then: “What do you mean quickly?" Total confusion and Bobby realized for the first time that Sam had no idea at all what or when this had happened. How did he always get stuck with the shittiest jobs?

"Sam, they came for us the day after I spoke to you. I didn't even have a chance to warn Dean."

"What?" His brow furrowed, his eyes pinched. "That was more than a month ago!"

"Yeah. That's kind of why I was wondering why you were here." _And not out raising holy hell to find your brother._

"They've had Dean for a month?" And Bobby watched the anger take over everything else. "Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?" Bobby was pissed and about to start yelling about blood loss, shock, splenectomies, and MRSA. But then he realized Sam was talking to someone else.

"I came for you when I could come." And Bobby recognized that voice.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Bobby had had enough of angels and demons to last him three lifetimes. If he'd never seen Castiel again, it would have been entirely too soon. The fact that he hadn't even noticed another presence in the room hit him a moment later. It spoke of exactly how fucked up he still was after a month in this hospital. He was so far off his game it wasn't funny. Being this distracted would be the death of him if he wasn't really careful.

"What does that mean? I've been feeling sorry for myself for a month and these maniacs have..." Sam deflated, all the starch taken right out of him. "This is all my fault."

_Oh, Christ!_

"Oh, Christ!" And Bobby pushed himself up. It was hard to give someone a stern talking-to while you were laid out flat on your back. "Look, Sam, you fucked up. I ain't gonna argue with you on that. You've been an out and out jackass for months now. But if you want to lay blame somewhere, lay it in the right place. And the only ones to blame for this mess are the assholes that shot me and took your brother." He wanted to smack Sam upside his head to emphasize his point, but he was sidetracked by a familiar hot, sharp pain ricocheting in his gut. He hissed, winced and fell back.

Sam was standing and helping him lay back, looking guiltier than ever and damn it, that was not the point. Bobby grabbed Sam's retreating wrist, waited for those ridiculous puppy eyes to meet his. He wanted Sam to see the truth in his eyes. "I mean it, boy. If you wanna feel guilty, at least feel guilty for the right reasons. And you didn't do this." He held Sam's eyes until he saw belief register there. Sam nodded, and that was good enough. He let go of Sam's wrist.

"I swear, you boys and your feelings. What ever happened to beating the crap out of each other and then having a beer?" And Bobby was treated to his second smile of the evening.

"We do that too," Sam said with wistful fondness.

"Don't I know it." Sam's smile melted into something that was so John Winchester that Bobby got goose bumps. He was looking at Sam Winchester the hunter, the predator. There was no more sign of the strung out punk he'd locked up last month; gone was the hard headed junkie that had brained him with the butt of his own gun. This was John's son Sam, Dean's brother Sam. This Sam was looking for whole different kinds of blood. He was looking for his Blood, and the blood of anyone who'd hurt him. And may God have mercy on them because Sam certainly wouldn't.

"Tell me what you know about this Roy MacKensey."

A half an hour later, Sam was gone. Bobby had sent him out with a few places to start, but Sam wouldn't need them. He hadn't been looking for addresses from Bobby. He'd wanted the kind of personal information that meant he was going hunting. These people had made this personal, and Sam was gearing up for their game. Mac was in Sam's crosshairs now. Any Winchester out for your blood was a scary proposition. A Winchester out to avenge their own-that was lethal. So yeah, Bobby might have felt bad for Mac if the man hadn't gut shot him and left him to bleed to death on his own floor. As it was, he hoped Sam got in one good shot for him while he was at it.

A chill ran down his back, aggravating him. He turned his attention to its source. "What the hell are you staring at?"

Sam had left him a parting gift. Bobby had his very own guardian angel now. And dear old Castiel didn't look any happier than he was. That was about the only consolation.

"You are very important to them."

"Oh please, can we not do this? Puking might pop my stitches." Bobby had argued with Sam. These guys weren't coming back for him. They either thought he was already dead, or hadn't cared enough to finish him off. Either way, there was no reason that he needed gloom and loom over there in the corner, just hanging around and being creepy. But Sam was nothing if not stubborn, and Bobby didn't have the energy to fight with him. Besides, he was exhausted and needed sleep. So he'd agreed to keep the damn angel around to appease Sam. Now he was trying to figure a way to get rid of him. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"No. Sam asked me to watch over you." Like it was the simplest thing in the world.

"Since when do you do what Sam wants?"

Castiel blinked at him and Bobby figured he was just going to ignore the question. But then he said, "Since Sam's wants are also his brother's."

"Oh, and suddenly you have Dean's interests at heart." Did Castiel even have a heart? He'd have to look that up later.

"Dean is important." _Cold bastard. Dean is important in ways that this thing can't even begin to fathom._

"If he was so important, why the hell didn't you help him with his brother?" This creature was standing there pretending to care about Dean. Didn't he know that all Dean cared about was protecting his brother?

"I did help him."

"Oh, please. I must have missed that in all the screaming and blood drinking."

Now the angel was starting to get ruffled. He stepped forward, eyes hard. "I gave Dean the thing he wanted the most. I gave him the power to save his brother. The grace to destroy the evil in Sam."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I'm tired of trying to explain these things. Sam's soul is safe now."

Bobby wasn't up for a heavenly battle. He'd get the answers he wanted eventually. He wasn't like those two boys. Bobby was patient and could wait for answers. He was too tired, too weak and too goddamn worried to dwell on the past. What was done, was done, and nothing would change that. So if this angel had somehow helped Dean help Sam, then so be it. Too bad no one had let Dean in on the secret.

"What if Sam needs your help? I'd feel better if he had someone watching his back."

"I will know if he requires assistance. For now, he will focus on Dean. If I'd gone with him, his attention would be splintered. He would be worrying about you and his brother. I can be of greater assistance to his cause by remaining here." Castiel moved closer to the bed, half-way in the room now. Maybe it was the Demerol, but Bobby felt relief for the first time in...he didn't even know how long. Sometimes it felt like he'd been holding his breath since Cold Oak. Sam laid out on that blood stained mattress, pale and still. It had been one long roller coaster drop ever since. For the first time, he thought maybe things might work out.

He looked over at Castiel and felt safe.

Oh yeah. It was definitely the Demerol.

* * *

TBC...


	6. The Valley of the Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drugs that he was being fed kept the pain as dull as his awareness, but Dean could feel something very wrong in him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Dean

-6-  
The Valley of the Shadow

Consciousness came on slow these days. Or semi-consciousness anyway, because Dean hadn't been fully awake and alert in...forever. He'd lost all concept of time down in the dark cold. He'd been cast down into a new hell, only this time, he didn't know what he'd done to earn the punishment. He blinked his eyes, searching for focus. He spotted the lit lantern on the far wall and was grateful that he'd been given the privilege of light again, even if it came with the ripe smell of kerosene. He pushed off the musty mattress, leaned back against the cold stone wall and took in the view. He had to wonder exactly why he'd missed sight so much.

He was pretty certain his dungeon had once been a storm cellar of some sort. Something that had been designed to protect people turned to a sinister purpose. An eight by ten hole carved fifteen feet down in the earth, with concrete walls and floor. What had probably been a wood door had been replaced with steel now, and sealed so tight that not a drop of light came through the seams. Dean pulled his knees to his chest. The sound of metal on concrete set his teeth on edge, drew his disdainful gaze to the shackle around his ankle. He tried to slip his right index finger between the cuff and his skin, but the ankle had swelled so much that the metal cut into his flesh. Dean's finger came away bloody.

"Son of a bitch." He mumbled to himself. His quiet voice sounded like a shout to him, so long had he been sitting in the pitch black, empty room.

The drugs that he was being fed kept the pain as dull as his awareness, but Dean could feel something very wrong in him now. The air was chilled, but his head was on fire. His body was freezing, but he was coated by a thin layer of sweat. Add to that the headache that had set up a permanent residence at the base of his skull and he knew that he was running a fever. Probably a substantial one, although the near constant drugging had disconnected him too much from his own body to be able to perform any kind of accurate self diagnosis. If he had to guess at a cause, he'd put his money on infection in one of his assorted injuries. But it could just as easily be a general illness caused by his less than stellar accommodations and circumstances.

Dean scanned the whole room, looking for any new additions to the landscape since the last time he'd had light. And to be perfectly honest, just enjoying the privilege of sight again. They hadn't put a light on in here in...a long time. His eyes skipped over his bucket-the only latrine he'd had since he'd been consigned to this pit. He'd found less and less use for it these days since food was scarce and his body was probably sweating out most of his water intake. They'd left him a bottle of water sitting in the middle of the room. He got two to three bottles a day, so obviously they were still trying to keep him in the land of the living, albeit walking very close to the edge right now. This one could be drugged, but that was uncommon for the first bottle of the day. Either way, Dean didn't care anymore. The drugs actually helped keep him from writhing in agony, so he stopped resisting them. Dean lay down and crawled on his belly ('like the snake you are Winchester,' the one they called Duke enjoyed saying) over to it, tried to keep his right leg as still as possible, and his left arm tucked to his body. He snagged the water with his right hand and pushed himself back up to his original position. He uncapped the water and took a sip. It tasted clean and he figured he was right. This one was probably not drugged. After all, it had been a while since they'd considered him threat enough to require constant sedation.

In the first week, he'd made three escape attempts in which he broke two noses, one arm, dislocated a shoulder, and dismantled his cot to turn the leg into a shiv. That little trick had in all probability blinded one of them. It had also prompted them to pile on him, beat him, break his left hand, right ankle and possibly a few ribs. They'd also started doping him non-stop and stopped feeding him every day. Meals, when they came, were meager-just enough to keep him from starvation.

So a lifetime later, here he was. He had no idea why they were bothering to keep him around anymore. The only logical explanation was that they were just sadists enjoying a new pet. Like a kid pulling wings off a fly. The first week or so he tried escaping, figuring he was good to get himself out of this mess. After they'd hobbled him, Dean started to hope for some sort of rescue attempt. That hope faded over the long days in the darkness. Dean figured Sam had taken him at his word, which was better anyway. Dean didn't figure he'd last all that much longer this way. Untreated infections, especially in still open wounds, had a tendency to cause all sorts of nastiness, and could end a life pretty quickly.

At least there was a bright side. This particular hell would end. Unfortunately, he'd probably have actual Hell to look forward to all over again.

Dean drifted a bit, thought back to the day they'd grabbed him. Thought about Bobby bleeding out all over the floor. It was his own fault. He shouldn't have drank that much, especially not when he was already hurt and exhausted. It had been stupid and self-indulgent. It was sloppy. His dad would have kicked his ass for it. But Bobby had just scooped him up, brought him back to his house, given him a glass of water and some aspirin and let him pass out in peace. And Dean repaid him by getting him killed.

God, you'd think the drugs might have helped dull the guilt that gnawed at him. Turned out, they just seemed to make it worse.

The door opened, swung up and out overhead, and let in enough light to blind Dean entirely. He hadn't seen sunlight in...he really didn't know, but he figured it was a long time. Felt like years. The ladder was lowered the fifteen feet to the floor below and Dean watched as one of them came down and squatted before him.

Duke.

Dean really hated this douche bag. Duke was as tall as Sam, had about 30 pounds and years on him. But he was all lumberjack strength, the kind of strength that spoke of a lifetime of manual labor. Hard earned muscle, with the calluses to match. So, Dean had been pretty proud of himself when he'd heard the tree trunk forearm crack during their little tussle that long ago day. He dropped his eyes to the cast on Duke's arm and then looked back up into the cold blue eyes, broke out into a grin and asked "How's the arm?" It was stupid, but all he had left was his rebellion. He watched the blue eyes harden, and then got a blow from the heavy plaster cast to his broken right ankle.

Dean howled, doubled over on himself, curled on his side. His stomach was doing its best to hold down his water, knew he wouldn't get anymore until tonight and couldn't afford dehydration on top of everything else. He felt Duke lean over him, his large frame eclipsing nearly all the sunlight in the room. Hot breath ghosted over his ear, his neck and Duke spat out, "how's the ankle?"

"Knock it off, Duke. Goddamn it. Get the hell out of here now." Dean couldn't see through the pain and tears, but figured that Mac was there now. He hadn't seen bad guy number three since the great cot extravaganza. If Mac was there and sending Duke out, that meant Dean had some small chance of not getting his ass kicked today. Very small.

Duke continued to breathe on Dean for a few seconds, a looming threat, asserting dominance or whatever it was that motivated Neanderthals before standing up and doing as he was told. Footsteps approached him and Dean curled a little tighter. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you boy. I'm starting to think you're some kind of masochist."

Mac put something down beside his mattress. Dean heard the sound of metal on concrete again and figured it was his food tray. He couldn't be sure though. It had been a while since they'd fed him. "Look, I'm putting two painkillers here for you if you want 'em. That ankle don't look good."

"Fuck you," Dean gritted out through clenched teeth.

Mac heaved a heavy, put-upon sigh. Like Dean was an errant child in need of a time out, not a beaten and dying prisoner. "You know, Dean, this isn't what I wanted."

"Which part? The Pulp Fiction, chained up gimp part? Because dude, all that's missing right now is the orange ball gag."

"You are directly responsible for your circumstances."

That was the line of crap that they continued to feed him. Somehow, he was to blame for all the long hours of suffering and misery that they'd heaped upon him. "You mean that if I had behaved myself you would have put me up in the local Hilton? So what's this dungeon for? Is this where you put your in-laws when they come to visit?" The pain in his ankle had settled back into a burning throb and Dean unclenched a bit, hoping relaxing his tensed up, dehydrated muscles would ease more of his discomfort.

"You're a real smart ass, you know that? Your brother a smart ass too?"

"Don't talk about my brother." Dean had had a lot of time to think and not much else to do since getting tossed into this dungeon. One of the many topics that haunted him was his brother. The things they'd said, the things he'd said to him. He wondered where Sam had gone, what he was doing. Was kind of glad he didn't really know. At least that way he could hope that he wasn't doing what he'd spent the previous year doing. He could hope he wasn't lying to himself, poisoning himself...

"Well, Sam's the elephant in the room, isn't he?" If Dean were picking the lame phrase that made no sense, he'd have called Sam the 800 pound gorilla, but that was just him. "Don't you think it's time we discussed him again?" And Mac moved a little closer to him, turned on the reasoning. Held the violence back, but Dean saw it below the surface. "I mean, you told us yourself that your brother was a monster." Dean flinched. He didn't remember that, but he might have. When they'd been hurting him, questioning him. He might have said it.

"I don't know where Sam went." And the truth of the statement cut him. He'd sent Sam off, disowned him and threatened to kill him if he ever saw him again. Yeah, Dean might leave this life with a few regrets this time too. But dying down in this pit instead of his brother wouldn't be one of them. "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."

Mac sighed the sigh that Dean had come to recognize now. This was the _why do you make me hurt you_ sigh. Dean braced himself for the blows. "It doesn't matter. We'll find him. The only difference is, we were going to let you go once we had him. A simple trade. We're not in the business of killing humans."

Dean snorted. Killing was a matter of semantics, he imagined. Beating, starving and leaving a man in a pit would kill him just as surely as a bullet. The only real difference between the two is the bullet is kinder. "I'm afraid, I can't make that promise anymore." As if Dean would trade his brother's life for his own. As if any choice he'd make would ever put Sam in this pit in his place. Didn't matter whether Sam was a monster or not, whether he should or shouldn't protect him anymore. Dean had never been able to _not_ choose Sam's safety over his own. And he never would.

Dean felt Mac's hand on him, flinched and braced, but there was no violence. The hand on his neck was monitoring, checking pulse. He guessed it wouldn't do for him to die just yet.

"This really isn't what I wanted, Dean. I liked your Daddy. He was a good hunter." Mac moved the paper plate and sandwich on the floor (they'd made the mistake of leaving him the tray only once.) "You should eat that food. I'll leave you these pills. You're going to need them."

Then Mac was gone. Dean almost relaxed before he realized that Duke had come back.

_You're going to need them._

Dean had about three seconds of all out panic before Duke grabbed the chain, hauled him backwards by his broken ankle. Dean bit back the scream: held it back but couldn't keep the tears in.

"You know, Joe lost his right eye, Dean." A size 14 army boot to the rib cage will take all the fight and air right out of you. Dean yelped like a whipped dog. "That little trick with the shiv. It was pretty resourceful." Dean was trying to crawl away, curl in on himself. Protect his belly, head, his broken ribs and other injuries. Problem was there was too much hurt and not enough uninjured parts to hide behind. "He'll never hunt again. I'm starting to feel that some biblical justice might be in order here." Dean heard the familiar snick of a switchblade opening and went ice cold.

* * *

TBC...


	7. Interlude: A New Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel can be a bit of a creeper when he wants to be.

-Interlude: A New Perspective-

Dark eyes tracked the two figures through the shadows into the quiet hospital. He couldn't be positive, but he thought that he might finally have gotten lucky. He'd have to get in closer to confirm.

Snuffing his cigarette between sneaker and cement, he followed the two newcomers through the quiet flurry that always existed after dark in the sterile hospital hallways.

* * *

Mac approached with caution. His fellow hunter was wound way too tightly these days. One good twist would see him snap and unravel with enough force to take out a city block.

"You didn't kill him, did you?"

"No." The white cloth turned red as it worked over the silver blade. The blade disappeared back into the handle as the cloth was tossed into the trash.

Mac picked the bloodied rag from the garbage, jaw and shoulders stiff with anger. "I told you not to use the knife. You know we can't afford shock. He's no good to us if he's dead."

Duke heaved an aggravated sigh. "He's not all that much good to us alive either."

"Hey, I warned you this might be a long haul hunt. I told you it wouldn't be easy. You wanted in."

"Yeah, well I guess I didn't realize exactly how long that long haul would be, Mac. This has been going on too long, and there's been no sign of the brother."

"I thought you were dedicated."

"I am dedicated. That's why I haven't killed that piece of shit yet."

"Yeah, well, you better hope he doesn't die."

"Look, I know what I'm doing, alright. I didn't cut him too much. Nothing that requires stitching. Nothing that won't scab all by itself."

"It better. We don't have a whole lot of other options for bait here."

"Personally, I think the kid was telling the truth. I don't think that the brother is going to come for him."

It was a possibility that they might have to face. Maybe Sam Winchester really was so far gone that he didn't care at all what happened to big brother. It went against all the profiling he'd done on this family. They took care of their own, lost their sense when it came to their kin.

Of course, the whole reason that they were after Sam was that he'd crossed into non-human territory. Maybe all that evil in him just burned away the loyalty. If that happened, this hunt would become a lot more difficult. They'd have to track instead of wait. It was an eventuality he'd considered and dismissed. Sam coming to them had always been the best option. If they had to go after Sam, it meant ending this part of the mission. It meant ending the brother fast.

Mac sighed. "When the time comes to make that call, I'll make it. I'll clean up my own mess here, Duke."

"Look, Joe is my partner. I got him into this mess and that punk took his eye. I'm going to get justice for him."

Mac opened his mouth to argue that revenge wasn't justice, but the ringing cell phone startled him. The ring was unfamiliar, so Mac went to grab Winchester's phone. It wasn't that one either.

"It's the prepaid one."

Mac had one brief second to think _finally._ Long haul or not, this whole situation had gotten old. He was dedicated, but he had a life. One that didn't include long term care of a hostile hostage.

"Yeah."

"He's here." _About time!_

"You positive?"

"Yeah. It's confirmed. But he's not alone." Not alone isn't really a shock. The brother had said that Sam had been in the company of a demon. It did complicate matters though. He'd planned for that. "How do I handle this?"

"Let him leave. If he went there, he'll come for big brother. It'll be easier here anyway. No muss, no fuss."

"What about Singer?"

"He's outlived his usefulness. Take him out. Do it clean." Mac felt bad. He'd always liked Bobby. But he couldn't have loose ends, and didn't need to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. And Bobby was definitely the kind of loose end that would have him concerned forever. He ended the call and looked at Duke, big shit-eating grin plastered to his face.

"You were saying?"

* * *

He hadn't signed up for this, that was for sure. Going after a demon-fine. A hunter gone rogue-not exactly thrilling, but he'd do it because it was the right thing to do. Breaking into houses, shooting and kidnapping people - allies even - that ate at him. Now, creeping into a hospital room to kill a fellow hunter, an acquaintance, that just ate him. But he also didn't plan to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for one of Singer's infinite connections or friends to come snuff him out.

So he steadied himself and walked into the room. Figured the sooner he got this over with, the better off he'd be.

Bobby was sleeping, or maybe unconscious from all the drugs. Either way, it would be easier to do it quick and clean. He withdrew the full syringe from his pocket, hoping just to unload this crap into the I.V. port in Bobby's hand, wait the minute that it would take for the drug to take hold and leave. Bobby would just sleep his way into death. Quick, Clean. No muss, no fuss. And no pain. He owed Bobby that much, at least.

"I would not do that if I were you." The voice startled him, almost sent him clean out of his shoes. He spun and saw Winchester's friend.

"Do yourself a favor here, buddy. Just get out. " There was something creepy and disturbing about this guy. He was standing in a dark corner, dressed in his overcoat in an eighty degree hospital room. He was so still that even now that he'd made his presence known, he could pass for a piece of furniture. Just blending.

"This is an unwise course of action, Jacob."

And Jake just didn't like that. He never gave anyone his real name and no one but his mother called him 'Jacob.' And she'd been dead for five years. Then something clicked in his mind.

Winchester hangs around with demons. Great!

He pulled the holy water from his pocket and threw it in Creepy's face. The eyes closed for a moment, blinking away the water, but then looked at him. Unfazed. Impassive.

Shit.

He started mumbling a Latin exorcism when the demon came at him, hoping he could buy himself time to get away. But it crossed to him in three steps, taking the syringe from him. "Go home to your family, Jacob. Leave this behind now. Your mission is untrue."

He had a million questions. His mind was blank. He was terrified and comforted. "Who are you?"

"Who I am is of no consequence. I am here to deliver a message to you. Go home to your family. Kiss your daughter and your wife and forget the task that you've been set upon. It will bring only grief."

Jake was numb when he walked out of the room, not sure what the hell he'd just encountered but pretty sure that he never wanted to meet him ever again. He considered calling Mac to warn him. Then tossed the idea aside figuring he'd been lucky to escape that room with his life.

Mac was on his own.

* * *

TBC...


	8. The Wayward Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For everyone's sake, Dean better be alive.
> 
> Sam had spent the last three and a half years of his life seeking vengeance, and he was really good at it now. Even without his 'power.' He had been doing nothing but hunting and training, planning and fighting since that November night so long ago. Since he'd watched the life he'd built incinerate before his eyes. He was a finely honed instrument of death by now. So if he started assuming anything other than Dean's survival at the end of this...
> 
> That really wouldn't go well for anyone.
> 
> So Sam shut up those voices. The small, baby brother whispering and wailing about Dean being dead, and the pragmatist that was telling him there was no way they'd kept Dean for almost five weeks as bait. Bait, in its nature, had a very short life span. He didn't want to become the monster again. He didn't want to start killing humans out of a need for revenge.
> 
> Oh, he'd kill them if he had to. But murder was the contingency, not the plan...

-7-  
The Wayward Son

Turned out Roy Mackensey, or Mac as he preferred, was pretty easy to find. The man didn't live off the grid like the Winchesters had their whole lives. He'd been a career marine officer, had an exemplary military record, earned an honorable discharge with full pension benefits and was now a proud owner of a modest Wheat Farm in Oklahoma. Had a family, wife Shelly, daughter Maureen-both now deceased. All part of public record. All information Sam had found within two hours of leaving Bobby's hospital room.

Sam wasn't particularly surprised at the ease with which he'd found this information. After all, what good is a laying a trap if Sam couldn't find it? Even if it did take more than a month.

_Thirty-three Days. How could I let this happen?_

He drifted for a minute, back to that night in the bar. Thought of all the horrible things his brother had said to him, and his own actions that had led to Dean's words. Thought about what had happened, and what should have happened. Sam never should have listened to Dean. He should have made Dean hear him out, talk with him. He shouldn't have run off and disappeared. He should have followed Dean, insisted that he listen to Sam. Give him his space, sure...but just leave? Again.

 _You need to get away from me_. The words echoed in Sam's head. The tone so sure , so honest. _If I see you, I will kill you._

Sam rubbed at tired, wet eyes and shut down the train of thought. It didn't matter anymore. They couldn't change what they'd said or done to one another. They were too old to call do-overs anymore. This wasn't about a do-over. A fresh start, maybe. A good, _'hi, I'm Sam. It's nice to meet you.'_ But first, Sam was going to find his brother. He hadn't been able to save him last year, but he would do it now. And once he did, if Dean still wanted him to disappear, he would. But not before they had words. They owed themselves a conversation, at the very least.

Sam had set off immediately for Oklahoma in one of Bobby's junkers. It had taken him a half a day to get there. He'd needed to wait for nightfall so he could liberate some records. So now here he was, thirty-four days after his brother had been kidnapped staring at the latest blueprints on file for Roy MacKensey's farm.

It was a fairly standard layout. Acres of field surrounding a modest house and barn. There were a few other free standing structures, probably equipment sheds. But what grabbed his attention was the storm cellar about twenty yards from the main house. Outside and underground. He'd bet his life that was where they had Dean.

No real cover. The only standing structures for acres. While a house in the middle of a vast open space seemed like a defense nightmare, it actually was quite brilliant. Any vehicles approaching would be spotted immediately, so Sam would have to go in on foot. If the farm had no crop, there wouldn't be a single hiding place or shred of cover for him and they could pick him off with rifle fire before he got within five hundred yards of his brother.

Darkness would be good cover. But if this guy was half as smart as Sam thought he might be, he would have electronic surveillance and motion detectors that would give Sam away as soon as he hit the property line. Maybe before.

He switched tactics, thought about an all out breach. Armoring the old car as best he could and just invading.

Dean would be dead before he hit the brake. _Assuming he's not already dead._

Sam shut that thought down. He had to operate from the assumption that Dean was still alive. This was a rescue mission to Sam. To assume Dean was already lost to him meant that Sam would have to stop planning the rescue and start planning vengeance...

For everyone's sake, Dean better be alive.

Sam had spent the last three and a half years of his life seeking vengeance, and he was _really_ good at it now. Even without his 'power.' He had been doing nothing but hunting and training, planning and fighting since that November night so long ago. Since he'd watched the life he'd built incinerate before his eyes. He was a finely honed instrument of death by now. So if he started assuming anything other than Dean's survival at the end of this...

That really wouldn't go well for anyone.

So Sam shut up those voices. The small baby brother whispering and wailing about Dean being dead, and the pragmatist that was telling him there was no way they'd kept Dean for almost five weeks as bait. Bait, in its very nature, had a very short life span. He didn't want to become the monster again. He didn't want to start killing humans out of a need for revenge.

Oh he'd kill them if he had to. But murder was the contingency, not the plan.

So Sam stared at the plans again, wishing for the hundredth time tonight that he had his brother to help him plan the siege. _Of course, if Dean were here, I wouldn't have to plan a siege._

So sneak attack and blitz both seemed to be off the table. Sam went back over the information again, everything he could dig up and at least one thing he was sure Mac hadn't expected he would find. But apparently these hunters had been so busy hunting Sam the monster, they hadn't bothered to find out about Sam the Computer Geek.

It wasn't his first choice. Hell, it wasn't even his fiftieth choice. But it might be his only choice.

Sam shook his head, and turned back to the blueprints, desperate for another answer, but the easiest choice nagged at him, kept pulling his mind to it, showing how it could work. Reluctantly, Sam had to agree.

After all, Mac had gone after his family first.

It had been easier than he'd expected, actually. Slipping into the suburban house in the middle of the night, making his way up the stairs and down the hall. Slipping into the pink and white room with all the stuffed animals.

Just like a monster. The thought turned his stomach, but what was done, was done now.

He had his bait. Now he just needed to lay the trap.

Sam dialed his brother's cell number, knowing without a doubt the call would be answered.

"I have to say that I'd just about given up on you Sam." The voice was amused and it just really pissed Sam off.

"Where's my brother?"

"Come on, Sam. You know how this works. You come here. I promise that we'll make it quick for you. Out of respect to your daddy." The mention of his father just cemented the deal. He hit the button on the computer and sent the message.

"Check Dean's inbox. I sent you a picture." Sam disconnected the call. Waited.

It didn't take long for his phone to ring.

"You piece of shit! Where is she?"

"Do I have your attention now?"

"Where is Emily?

"Should have thought about her before you took my brother. Should have realized that she was a vulnerability."

"I knew you were evil Winchester!"

"Well you should have thought about that before you shot Bobby and kidnapped Dean. If you're going to fuck with a man's family, you better be prepared to face the consequences. You should have done a better job hiding your granddaughter."

"If you hurt her..."

"You'll what? Kidnap my brother? Shoot my friend? Hunt me down?" Sam paused, partially for the drama and partially because his heart was pounding in his throat. This was a dangerous game he was playing. He needed to play this hand just right, or he'd get Dean and himself killed. Needed to be hard and cold. "Shut up and listen to me. This is how things are going to go unless you want me to start sending you pieces of this kid." The nausea had continued to grow, but so did his rage. He had the upper hand now and he was planning on using it to bitch slap these bastards.

"I'm going to come and get my brother in two hours. He'd better still be alive when I get there. If you or your friends try anything, the next time you see your granddaughter will be in a morgue. Say 'yes' if you understand and believe me."

"Yes." And Sam counted on that. He'd pulled the rug out from under them, changed the rules to their own game. These men thought he was a monster. He was going to use that to his advantage.

"Turn on your lights. I want all of you out in front of the house. I'm not interested in killing, but I've got no problem with it either. I just want my brother."

"You're going to get more than that, boy."

"Do you really think threatening me is the best use of your time right now? I'm proposing a fair trade. I have something you want, and you have something I want. How this goes down is up to you." He disconnected the call again.

He had preparations to make.

One hour and thirty two minutes after he ended the call, Sam's junker careened up the driveway toward Mac's farmhouse. He saw two figures standing out in front of the house, but no sign of the third. He scanned around looking and watched as the front windscreen exploded in a hail of bullets.

Too bad for them, Sam wasn't driving the car.

Sam watched through his binoculars as the two morons dove out of the way of the car before it crashed into the side of the house. Sam pressed a button on his cell phone and the car and farmhouse exploded, throwing people and debris in the force of the concussion.

The bomb wouldn't have left anything more than pieces of the guy on the roof. Too bad for him. If they'd done what Sam had told them, all three would have lived through this mess. He might feel bad about killing that guy later, but right now, his only concern was getting to his brother as quickly as possible. Sam couldn't be sure if the blast had killed the other two. It hadn't been the goal. He'd wanted to stun them, knock them out. But one could never be exact when dealing with explosives. And just to be sure, he'd wired that car with enough explosives to take down a building twice the size of the farmhouse. Sam had counted on them laying a trap for him. They hadn't counted on him turning it back on them...again.

Sam ran for the door of the storm cellar, praying he was right. He'd scoped out the house enough to be pretty positive that his brother was not in the house. No windows were boarded, which they would have to be to keep his brother in a room. There was no basement on the plans, and even if there were an 'illegal' basement, these guys would never keep their brother under the same roof that they were sleeping. Dean would have killed them all. Still, with no way to be absolutely positive, he'd taken a huge risk blowing up anything. But his and his brother's survival depended on Sam taking some extraordinary risks right now.

So Sam did the only thing he could do: disconnected the call and keep watch over them. He'd half been hoping that they'd try to move Dean, let Sam get a glimpse of him through his night vision binoculars. but they hadn't. They'd moved quickly and efficiently, set up the sniper on the roof, and a perimeter around the house. They'd headed to the storm cellar at one point, and Sam held his breath. But they hadn't opened it, just knelt down. Probably to secure it in some way. Maybe wire it to explode. Either way was fine. They hadn't opened it. But the acknowledgement of the cellar had been the deciding factor on his Plan A approach.

Sam hadn't been able to decide between sneak attack and a blitz attack. In the end, he'd chosen both.

He slowed as he approached, did a visual sweep for any sort of trip wire or pressure plate that might blow him and his brother up. Nothing. Which was stupid. Their best chance of getting him had always been right here, within arm's reach of Dean.

Steady hands made quick work of the padlock. The doors were so heavy that Sam had to stand to get enough leverage to pull them open. The doors swung up and out with a squeal and came to a rest with a heavy thud on either side of the gaping hole in the ground.

The smell was the first thing that hit Sam, and it almost knocked him off his feet. _Oh God! I'm too late._

But it wasn't the smell of decay. It was a sickening mixture of mold, mildew and all manner of bodily fluids and secretions. Sam's horror and anger grew in tandem, each feeding off the other until his head was ready to explode from his elevated blood pressure.

"Dean!" He shouted into the hole. He couldn't see anything. There was no light and no answer. He leaned further in, trying to spot his brother. But there was no light in there, and no moonlight to help him. Sam hadn't brought the heavy torch because he'd needed his hands free and didn't want to be weighed down by anything except weapons. There was also no way down. "Dean! Can you hear me? Answer me!"

Nothing.

Sam stood up, looked back toward the house. He needed a ladder. He thought he'd covered his bases but he'd never imagined...

The two hunters were still laid out in front of the burning ruins of the house, but he thought he saw one of them move.

Good.

Sam needed something to hurt right now.

He moved in on the prone form with all the speed and grace of a cougar hunting its prey. The hunter had made it to his knees just in time for Sam to kick him with all the rage fueled strength he possessed.

The snap of ribs was almost as loud as the scream it drew. Sam kicked again, rolling the man over to look in his frightened eyes.

The bright red blood leaking out his mouth spoke of internal injuries. _Good!_ Sam wanted to kick him again, drive broken bone into the organs beneath; had a flash of how it might feel to be elbow deep in viscera. _Castiel was wrong,_ was all Sam could think. Sam felt just as much a monster today as he had drinking down Ruby's blood. More so. Because his intentions then had never been to inflict pain, or extract screams. Today he'd learned how hot bloodlust really burned.

Two deep breaths gave him back control of his body if not his mind. Sam didn't kick the bleeding man again. Not while he needed him alive. Not before he's seen his living, breathing brother with his own two eyes. Because the alternative... He leaned down and grabbed the front of his shirt.

"Where's the ladder?"

"What?" Blood bubbled, dripped. Sam knew he should feel horror. Couldn't bring himself to worry just yet.

"The ladder!"

"We dropped it in the hole with him." And while that wouldn't be enough to stop him, the added obstacle just incited his rage further. Sam pulled back his arm and punched the man hard enough to crack his jaw. The man yelled out once, then stilled, trying to speak through his now broken face.

"Where's Emily?" The words were barely recognizable through the blood and broken bone.

"Who?"

"Emily." It took Sam a minute to figure out what this guy was talking about. His B&E seemed like ten years ago, not three hours.

"At home in her bed. I don't attack innocent people. Especially not six year old girls." Sam had cut the phone lines, put a jammer to interfere with the cell phones, stolen a picture to Photoshop and a stuffed animal if he needed tangible backup. He wasn't comfortable violating a family's home, or using a little girl no matter how indirectly, but he figured that compared with what this man had done, his crime was negligible. Sam waited for realization to sparkle in the dulling eyes before knocking the man unconscious.

He needed to get back to his brother.

Ten minutes of searching the barn and Sam came up with rope, a flashlight, and a first aid kit. On his way out, he spotted a pickup truck and figured he'd need new wheels. Three minutes later, he hotwired the pickup, emptied the bed of everything but three blankets, a case of bottled water, the toolbox, and the remaining supplies. One minute after that he was parked fifteen feet from the doors to the pit. Sam jumped out, turned on the headlights and flashlight and tried to get a glimpse of his brother.

Leaning in to the gaping maw, Sam flicked on the light and did a sweep. He spotted the rope ladder below, just where Mac had said it would be. Spared a second to curse the man yet again before continuing his sweep. He moved the light a bit until it caught and flashed on something. It took a second to realize that he was staring at a chain. Sam swallowed hard, moving the light until it fell on a familiar foot.

They'd chained Dean to a wall!

"Dean!" He yelled, but the foot didn't move. He moved the light up the denim clad leg, caught a glimpse of the pale skin of Dean's hand, his arm. His shuddering back. Tried to see his face, but Dean was turned away, curled into toward the wall.

Whatever. Sam had confirmed that his brother was down in the pit. Saw him move as proof of life. That was all that mattered. He'd found him alive. Now he just had to get down there and get him out.

Sam went to the pickup and searched the bed, grabbing the tool box that he'd spotted earlier. He had no idea what would work best, but figured that something might come in handy. He tied the box to the rope, lowered it down. Then almost went head first into the hole when something cracked across his back.

Kidney shot with a blunt object. Bright colors and sparks of light flashed across Sam's vision. He heard the familiar whistle of a heavy object slicing through air in time to dodge the next shot and get a look at his attacker.

He was a mountain, tall and broad with a neck like a tree trunk. But he was also disoriented and off kilter. Probably guy number three in the explosion.

"Didn't actually think you'd show up." Sam circled him, wanted to get some distance between himself and the big hole in the ground.

"Here I am."

"Yeah, here you are." The big man pulled a switchblade from his pocket. "I made your brother scream with this little knife. Are you gonna scream too?" Sam didn't answer, thought about just pulling his gun and shooting this piece of crap. But his rage was calling for something more...hands on. So Sam sneered, prepared for his defense.

"You know, Winchester? Mac wanted to do quick and painless for you. But me...well, I'm thinking not-so-quick and really painful is in order."

"Yeah? Funny. I was just thinking the exact same thing." The big guy moved first and Sam let him come. He was faster than he looked, but nowhere near fast enough to connect. Sam ignored the attacking knife in favor of a good knee shot. He deflected, got next to the guy and kicked him in the side of his knee. Hard. The knee snapped, bent in a new direction and the mountain went down.

He didn't stay down for long. He rolled to his feet again, his weight redistributed to land on his uninjured leg. The guy was tough and trained. Unfortunately for him, so was Sam.

Sam used his speed and his own considerable size in his next attack. If this guy wanted a long, drawn out, action movie fight, he was going to be disappointed. Sam was looking to end this quick and brutal if necessary. He feinted, then delivered a closed fist to the man's ear. The guy went down again. Tried to get up again, but Sam had hit him hard. There was blood leaking from the ear from what was no doubt a blown eardrum. This guy wouldn't find his equilibrium again anytime soon. Sam stalked over to him, caught the kicking leg mid-swing, felt the strength behind it rattle his elbows and shoulders. Realized exactly what a kick from this man would feel like to his chained up brother and felt the knife of vengeance twist in his gut. Sam twisted the leg-the good one this time-until he heard the pop. He'd either blown the knee, or the hip. Either way, there was no way this guy was getting up again without crutches.

The man was cursing at him, screaming. And yeah, Sam could understand the screaming. Two blown out joints had to hurt like little else. Sam didn't feel particularly good about disabling the man-possibly permanently. But he hadn't killed him, which was more kindness and mercy than this stranger was willing to show him. Or Dean. Sam went over to the writhing body and disarmed him. The switchblade he'd been waving at Sam went sailing off into the night first, followed by a .44. The man lashed out at him with fists, caught Sam one good glancing blow on the chin before Sam put him out. One good punch to the temple toppled the man into unconsciousness. Maybe forever.

Yeah, he should feel bad about that too. He'd work on that later.

Threat dealt with Sam made his way back to the doorway. The flashlight had toppled into the room, lighting up an unoccupied corner and a dark stain of dried blood. Sam gave the man one more considering thought _(I made your brother scream with this little knife)_ before dismissing him entirely. He needed to get down there to his brother. Sam tied the rope off on the trailer hitch of the pickup, grabbed the first aid kit, the flashlight and a bottle of water and lowered himself down.

Fifteen seconds later he was on the floor. The smell was so overwhelming that Sam gagged on it. He did a quick check, making sure that no one lay in wait for him. Wouldn't be the best place to lay a trap since it would put one of the hunters in a very small room with a very large and pissed off Sam. But these people didn't seem blessed with an overabundance of brains, so he remained prudent and did the slow sweep with the light. No people (except Dean). He spotted the bucket and felt his stomach writhe. The idea that his brother had spent a month down here...But he shut off that thought, determined to focus entirely on the curled up man before him.

Dean was fetal on a filthy, stripped mattress on a concrete floor. His captors had taken his boots, socks and his jacket, leaving him in a thin, t-shirt and jeans. Both were stained dark with old and new blood. Sam knelt beside Dean, hoping to get a look at the damage; hoping to get his brother's attention. But Dean was facing the concrete wall, trembling so hard that Sam thought he might fly apart. Sam moved slowly, hands ghosting the air above Dean's back, afraid touch him. Afraid he might cause more damage to the already overwrought body. "Dean." He sniffed, pulled himself together. He'd be no use if he fell apart. He needed to be strong here. He lay a hand on the center of Dean's back, drew back quickly at the knobs of spinal column now jutting out. Dean had been thin before, had lost weight this past year in his perpetual worry and stress. But now, he was bony. Sickly. Sam put a hand on Dean's left shoulder, tried to roll him onto his back to better assess.

Dean curled tighter, shook harder. Dean remained oblivious to his presence, so lost in his own pain that his body just reacted to his touch without any conscious will dictating movement. Sam pushed both hands through his hair, tried to gather enough of his control to decide what to do. Dean didn't want to move, and Sam just couldn't bring himself to do anything against Dean's will right then. He eyed the chain with disgust and decided to make his primary focus freeing his brother from his bonds.

"Alright Dean. I'm going to get this off, okay?" He didn't respond, but Sam hadn't expected an answer. He just needed some voice to take some of the attention away from the horror. Sam put down his flashlight and reached for the shackle. Dean hissed and flinched when he touched it, and Sam got a look at the shacked limb. It was bruised and swollen, the cuff embedded in bloody and infected skin. The joint was so obviously broken that Sam choked up, felt his rage spike again. He pushed it back, determined to deal with it later. He didn't have time to dwell, he needed to triage and get his brother out. Sam got back to work, looking for a lock or some way to free his brother.

Fingers ghosted the circumference of the shackle, then moved down the links of the chain. There was no seam, no lock. The chain had to have been welded onto Dean. All Sam could see and feel was solder at the joint between the cuff and chain. Sam couldn't imagine how they'd done this but decided that it didn't really matter. He couldn't unlock the cuff, so he'd have to break the chain. A bolt cutter would be best. Sam went through the tool box, looking for anything that might help. Worse came to worse, Sam would use his gun, but that was definitely not his first choice in the closed, concrete room. The chance of ricochet was too high, especially considering the high caliber ammo Sam was using.

The large toolbox had a bolt cutter. Sam would count himself lucky, except this toolbox belonged to the man that had chained his brother to the wall in the first place. It only made sense that he'd have the tool to cut the chain he'd used. Sam cut the chain a foot from Dean's ankle, not wanting to apply any more pressure to the already broken joint. Once that was done, he tossed the cutter aside and moved back up to his brother's head. Even gentle, steady pressure on his shoulder caused Dean to cry out, but this time he went with the direction, and finally, finally Sam had him on his back.

Dean was a swollen, bloody mess.

"Oh God!" The lead weight of fear that had lightened at finding his brother hit him low again, made him shiver. "Dean, can you hear me?" Sam whispered, reaching to uncap a water bottle. He poured some in the cap and then on Dean's parched lips. Dean was flushed with fever, bruised and swelled almost beyond recognition. His breathing was labored, filled with fluid. Probably pneumonia. Hopefully only pneumonia because the only alternative Sam could think of was internal hemorrhaging and certain death. Sam opened the first aid kit, ripped open a gauze packet and began mopping the blood off his brother's face. He needed to find the source. This blood was fresh. Dean winced, jerked away, swatted at him. Sam caught the hand to get a look at it. His left hand was twisted, wrist black and purple and swelled three times its normal size. Broken. Maybe irreparably. Dean might never have full use of that hand again.

"Christ, Dean. " The catalogue would keep growing, but Sam could tell that he needed to get his brother the hell out of this dungeon now. Sam lay Dean's hand back down on his chest, continued to clean away the blood. Found the source of all the blood in a clean slice that started at his brother's hairline and tracked down to the corner of his right eye. Sam dropped the gauze and lifted the swollen eyelid, terrified what he might find, images of a switchblade dancing through his mind. But the eye was still there, still intact beneath the lid, so Sam let it close and heaved a sigh.

The eyelid twitched then cracked back open. "Hey. Dean? You awake?" Sam felt hope mix with fear. Hope that his brother was finally joining him in this mission. Fear of...too many things to name.

Dean blinked a few times, twitched back and forth in an effort to get his bearings. Sam had seen this whole routine in every hospital room, every motel-after every injury Dean had ever suffered. He swallowed, wet his lips, then focused back on Sam.

"Sam?"

_Thank God!_

"Yeah."

"What are you doing here?"

Sam tried not to let the question hurt. He saw the confusion in his brother's eyes, knew he was disoriented, exhausted, dehydrated and very ill. It still stung, echoes of _don't come near me again_ ringing in his mind. "I'm here for you."

Dean was shaking his head now, panic and fear in his eyes. "Get out. ts'a trap."

"Yeah I know. We're both getting out of here. Come on, I need you to work with me Dean." Sam put one hand under Dean's head, tried to leverage him off the cot. His brother was dead weight, not helping him at all. "This would be a lot easier if you'd work with me."

Dean's good hand wrapped around Sam's wrist. Sam looked at the hand then into Dean's eyes. "Sorry Sammy."

Sam felt the fist that had clenched his heart for the past month (year) finally let go. It wasn't the 'sorry' that did it, although if Dean was seeking forgiveness then that meant he'd forgiven. No, it wasn't the sorry, it was the 'Sammy.' Because Sammy was Dean's little brother, and that meant that they would be okay. First things first though. "Don't be. Let's just go, okay. We've gotta go."

Dean let Sam pull him up this time, moaned and cried out as Sam got him sitting up. Sam shucked his flannel and wrapped it around Dean. Buttoned up the front and tucked Dean's left arm into it like a make shift sling. Dean's skin was on fire with fever and Sam moved faster. Dean was babbling on, talking through his pain. Sam ignored him, figured this was Dean's way of hiding his pain, until he caught the "nearly given up on you."

Sam stilled, looked at his brother. Looked around the room. Saw how long a month could be from this perspective. Sam could have held to the "given up on you," felt the hurt all over again. But what he'd heard was the 'nearly.' After all the horror of the last few years, all the pain they'd caused each other over the past few months, all the terrible things they'd said and done, Dean had still not given up on Sam. And that was everything.

"Okay. I need you to tell me the truth now. Can you move?" Dean swallowed, paused a second to think before he nodded. "Alright. I'll do all the heavy lifting. I'll get you up, but we're going to have to work together to get you out of here. Alright?"

Sam got Dean's right arm across his shoulders, put his own arm around Dean and heaved. Dean yelled, and Sam felt something shift under his hand. He lowered his brother back down, both of them pale and shaking.

"Ribs?"

Dean nodded first, then when he found his voice, said "Yeah."

Sam raked his hands through his hair, knew there was no way he could carry his brother up 15 feet of rope (or even rope ladder) with broken ribs. "Okay, new plan. I'm going to go up and get something to make into a backboard."

Dean was shaking his head before Sam finished the sentence. "Forget it. Just get me up. I'll be fine."

"Dude, I'm not moving you with broken ribs."

"They've been broken for a long time. Probably just healed wrong now. Nothing's going to shift anymore. Just get me the hell out of here, Sam."

"Dean..." Trying to talk reason.

"I can't spend another minute in this pit, alright." The admission cost Dean. Somehow, he looked ashamed, like he was weak for not wanting to spend any more time in a dark, cold, bloody hole in the ground. Sam didn't want to spend another second down here and he'd only been here for a few minutes.

"Alright. Let's see if we can shore you up a bit first." Sam opened the first aid kit again, pulled out an ACE bandage. He rifled through all the various pills and vials until one caught his eye and tugged at his memory. He ripped open a sterile syringe packet, loaded it, and reached for Dean's good arm.

"S'that?" Dean was fading fast.

"Veterinary Telazol." Dean blinked at him. "Just to take the edge off, Dean." Sam watched uncertainty and fear play out in his brother's eyes and waited. He wanted to do this quick and painless, but he wouldn't drug his brother against his will. Dean blinked at him.

"Whatever. Just do it."

Sam slipped the needle into his brother's vein with quiet efficiency. He pressed the plunger slowly, watching Dean's eyes glaze and close and then pulled out the needle, tossing it aside. He wrapped the ACE bandage as tight as he could get it, hoping that binding up Dean's ribs would keep them from shifting too much, and then lay Dean back on the mattress.

He slid the whole mattress across the floor. He'd have to work really fast to get Dean out of this pit before he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see so many places where I want to revise the prose of this story, but it's over 11 years old, and I figure I should let it stand and fall on its own. It's interesting to read my old writing and see how I've evolved as a writer. To be honest, I like this story. It's definitely not my best writing, but it's not my worst either.


	9. Not With a Bang, but a Whimper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are the hollow men  
>  We are the stuffed men  
>  Leaning together  
>  Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!  
>  Our dried voices, when  
>  We whisper together  
>  Are quiet and meaningless  
>  As wind in dry grass  
>  Or rats' feet over broken glass  
>  In our dry cellar
> 
> Shape without form, shade without colour,  
>  Paralysed force, gesture without motion;  
> The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot
> 
> Dean survived his five weeks of torment, but for how long?

"For Thine is  
Life is  
For Thine is the  
  
_This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends..."  
_The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot  
  


-8-  
Not with a Bang But a Whimper

The heat is unbearable. He should be soaked with sweat, but he's bone dry and just roasting inside. _Turn the heat off!_ He wants to move, writhe, just brain himself. Anything to distract himself from the miserable heat inside his own skin.

"Stay with me, Dean."

He wants to, but he's so hot. And his head just...fucking...hurts.

* * *

_They wrestled his boots off him. One sat on his chest, pressed his knees flat while another one cut through laces and tongues and then his feet are bare on the ice cold floor. He'd cursed at them through the whole procedure, earned a few hard cuffs to the back of his head. He heard the chain, felt the cuff and started bucking hard. The blow torch only slipped once, singed the sole of his foot in warning. Then the cold metal got so hot that it practically melted his ankle. He's pretty sure that was the first time they'd gotten him to scream. It wasn't the last._

* * *

And he's screaming now too, screaming his throat bloody. The memory and the heat and there's light now that somehow drives nails into his head. And he can't seem to get away from it, pull his eyelids down to shut out the light. Someone is yelling a bunch of numbers out. '105 point 2, 58 over 37,' and Dean wonders if they're playing BINGO or announcing the Lotto numbers. He wishes that they'd shut the fuck up already. There's all this noise, inside and outside, and he tries to cover his ears.

Something is holding him down. Hands first, and they are so cold he thinks he shouts about them and he's trying so hard to get them off him.

"Do something."

That was Sammy. Sammy needs to get him out of here. He tries to convey that point with body and voice.

"Dean!"

If Sam won't help him, he'll have to get himself out.

And someone is yelling more numbers. Something's too fast, too high. 208.

"He's crashing."

* * *

_They woke him with a bucket of ice water. He couldn't be sure how long he'd been in the pit by then, but it was long enough that he was already fading. The exhaustion already ran bone deep, and he welcomed the pain as a respite from the constant cold. Dean hadn't had any real experience with basements up until then. The cold damp of underground was something he'd only experienced when digging graves, exploring tombs or in some other temporary hunting related activity. He'd never had a basement (after Lawrence), and certainly never spent any length of time in one. His dad had always avoided basement apartments for the sheer inescapability of them. It hadn't taken long to realize just how much damp cold could make a body hurt. How it invaded you in ways that little else could, made your body tense and cramp and spasm. How it made you wish that you'd just go numb or die already so it would stop._

* * *

He's so cold. He must have been shivering, chattering and grinding his teeth because it feels like someone broke his jaw. He flails hard, his broken left hand rebounds off something and he yells.

"Easy. We're trying to help you."

Fuck that. Thinks he might have said it out loud because someone laughs.

"Good for you. You keep fighting, buddy."

* * *

_'You just keep on fighting. When are you going to give up?' And Dean really didn't have an answer to that question. They'd beaten him, each in turn. His ribs were busted for sure and he can't feel his foot except for the pain. Duke, that piece of shit, just yanked on that chain. Must have gotten the sadistic, dick-less bastard off. Dean told him so, which earned him another hard jerk and a gut shot. He knew that would have him pissing blood. He was pretty sure that if he survived this mess (that was a big if), there would be permanent damage to his ankle from all the abuse._

* * *

There's no numbers now, but words. Long words, like everyone is playing Balderdash while Dean just shivers and roasts and hurts and hurts and hurts.

" Osteomyelitis."

"... that mean?"

"The infection... spreading. We can try debridement, bone grafts and antibiotics..."

"...Okay."

"...immune system is compromised. We may have to amputate..."

 _No!_ He's pretty positive that one was out loud, because now there are weights on his limbs, and more words and numbers are getting shouted out, and he's ready to check out already. Something warm floods through him and so he does.

Everything goes black.

* * *

_He stared into a sea of black eyes, smirking mouths. They were going to rip him apart, he knew. But he didn't care, wasn't here for them. Only here for one. The one in the front. Black eyes and shaggy hair and please God no!_

_'Sam.' He shouted it, knew he did. Couldn't be sure if Sam heard him over the rising cacophony of screams, but he turned anyway._

_Black eyes met his and Dean almost lost it. Almost._

_There was a rush of movement, not sure if he'd moved or if everything else did, but suddenly Sam is right in front of him, sneering. Dean reached for him in fear as Sam grabbed him in violence._

_There's heat and light and pain. Oh so much pain before there's nothing..._

* * *

And he's pretty sure he's awake now, although there's still so much pain, just everywhere. That particular nightmare hadn't made an appearance since his first few nights of captivity. There'd been so many other monsters plaguing his waking and sleeping hours that his subconscious didn't even have to get involved in his nightmares anymore. So the fact that his nightmare about his baby brother decided to take a revival tour kind of bothered him.

He didn't know how long he'd been out for this time. Too long, for sure. His eyes were stuck shut and there was a sharp pain behind his right eye that radiated...right to his toes. He knew it should hurt more though, shouldn't have this muzzy haze over everything. He must be close. Dying any minute now.

That should bother him, right? Except he couldn't seem to muster up enough concern or regret. He guessed somewhere along the way dying had become old hat.

There was one regret that nagged at him though. Didn't like the idea of dying again with so much unfinished with Sam.

"Dean. You awake?"

That was weird. That sounded like Sam. What the hell would Sam be doing down in this pit?

_[We're both getting out of here... I'll do all the heavy lifting]_

Had that happened? Had that been real?

_[Let's see if we can shore you up a bit first...]_

It had seemed real at the time. But that was the problem with vivid hallucinations. They seemed real right until they didn't anymore. Then there was more...

Bright lights and loud voices. Hands and cold and hot again. Words. So many words that didn't mean anything to his dizzy mind. _Dehydration...low blood pressure...shock...renal failure...Septicemia...Bacteremia..._ _Osteomyelitis_ _...debridement...amputation._

That one got Dean's attention, made him jerk hard in the bed. Things pinched and pulled as he tried to flail. He felt hands on him, holding him down and he thrashed harder against the restraint.

 _No no no no no._ And he didn't want to be a pussy, but he didn't want pieces of him carved off either! Didn't want to think that he'd gone to sleep one day and woken up in pieces. Fractured.

"Hey, Dean. Easy alright. You awake?" The voice was small, scared, and hopeful like only Sam could do. "Come on back now."

"Sss-m?" That sucked. His mouth was just stuck together. And it tasted god-awful now that Dean had a chance to really get the taste on his tongue. His eyes were glued shut, held together by some adhesive that Dean didn't even want to contemplate, let alone name _. (Bodily fluids are disgusting!)_ He fought and got them to open. Flutter, more probably, since everything looked like a bad stop motion film to him.

Sam smiled at him and Dean tried to smile back, but was pretty sure it didn't work right because Sam's smile disappeared like Dean had flipped him off. "Welcome back."

Sam looked terrible. Considering the look on Sam's face, Dean figured he didn't look so great himself.

"I go somewhere?" He was trying for smartass, hoping to get a smile. It must have fallen flat though because Sam got all serious.

"Yeah, almost." Sam sat down as Dean fought for focus. He had questions, but...his vision was shrinking and he blinked to clear his eyes. Once...twice.

He was out before the count of three.

* * *

There were voices now. Whispers that pulled him out of sleep and back into some semblance of consciousness. He fought for concentration, tried to eavesdrop on the voices.

"... he doing?" Soft, familiar.

"Better." That one was Sam. "I don't know yet."

"He wake up at all?"

"A few times." _Huh?_ He definitely didn't remember a few times. Wasn't even sure he remembered the once for real. "The last time he was pretty coherent."

"That's good. I told you he's tough."

"Yeah" And damn it, Sam was choking up now. "...It was too close, Bobby."

 _Bobby?_ And then a picture of Bobby hemorrhaging blood all over his kitchen flashed through his muzzy brain and Dean was _awake_.

"B-bby?" He was pretty proud he'd managed to make a sound that was almost a word. He peeled open his eyes again and was staring at an IV stand. He felt a warm hand on his forearm and turned his head. And there he was.

He looked like crap, too. He was pale and pasty, bruised looking and just thinner than he had any right to be. But he wasn't dead, so he looked way better than Dean had been expecting. "I thought you were dead." It didn't come out that clear, and now Dean realized that he must be doped to the gills. Only morphine or two bottles of Scotch could fuck up a man's speech this badly.

Bobby seemed to understand him well enough. "Yeah, I did too for a while."

"You 'kay?"

Bobby laughed at him. "I'm a hell of a lot better than you are, boy."

"mmmm..." He had to agree. Bobby was sitting up. Dean could barely keep his eyes open. He started to drift off again but something nagged at him. Something important, and Dean just knew he needed to remember. And then the word amputation flitted through his mind.

His heart rate jacked up and his eyes searched frantically. He tried to leverage himself up, but Sam was pressing onto his shoulders with force. Sam was talking fast at him, his voice loud, but not loud enough for Dean to hear over his own panicked heartbeat and hyperventilation. The blood was pounding in his ears and he kicked hard.

His right leg was too heavy, and Dean had a moment of total panic, fight or flight, before a weight like warm honey poured right through him and took all the wind out of his sails.

"...to leave now." And that was a new voice. A female voice, so Dean obviously had to tune in.

"No. Please, he'll be okay now," voice pleading and soft (edged with panic)-classic Sam. Dean figured he'd busted out the dewy puppy-dog eyes, but he couldn't focus enough to even see Sam yet.

"Sir..."

And Dean got the idea. They were throwing Sam out because of him. He needed to stop that from happening.

"Wait!" It sounded more like 'ATE' but everyone seemed to understand. Dean figured that when you were a fucked up mess, people paid some attention when you spoke. A nurse was looking at Dean, hands on her hips and Sam just looked beaten. And just how fucked up was he that he hadn't realized he was in a _hospital_ until he saw the nurse in her damn scrubs? "I'm okay," which was a total lie, but obviously coherent, even if it did sound too much like 'm-kay' for Dean's preference.

Whatever. He seemed to have made his point because it was the nurse leaving, not Sam. And Sam settled down next to the bed again.

"Sorry."

Sam looked surprised at the apology. Something in Dean figured there was a reason for that, but his brain just wasn't clued into the joke yet. He'd play catch up later. "Don't be. Are you all right now?"

"No." And hell, that was _way_ more honest than Dean had meant to be just there. But drugs are funny things. "I'll try not to do that again." Whatever it was that he'd done. He knew it was something but he couldn't actually recall what had caused all the ruckus.

"Yeah, don't. You'll rip out your IV and catheter, man. Not to mention breaking things that took a lot of work to put back together." Dean figured that he should worry about all of that, but whatever they'd stuck him with just felt so...damn...good. And this is why people did drugs, right? Because...wow.

"B-bby?"

"He'll be back. Attila the nurse wouldn't let the both of us stay anymore." Dean appreciated the effort it took for Sam to make a joke right then. Even if the joke wasn't funny at all.

"You all right now? You're not going to freak out again are you?"

And no, he really didn't think that he'd be freaking out again presently. Except there was something important. And then he remembered. "mmmputate?" And Dean knew he was fading again but he needed to hear it. Needed to know what happened. Sam looked surprised.

"I'm sorry." And Dean almost threw up right then. Sam must have seen it because he was backpedaling like crazy and saying no, no, no. "That's not what I meant!" And he was stammering and stumbling over his words. "They didn't amputate your foot, Dean." And _oh God_ , what a relief to hear! Even if it was a foot and Dean had another one and everything, he just really did not want...that. "I didn't think you'd even remember. Otherwise I would have told you when you woke up."

"What happened?" At least that was what he tried to ask, but whatever he'd just said didn't even have the correct number of syllables, or any of the right letters and sounds in it. Sam looked confused. So he tried again, and Sam proved once again that he was really smart, because he was answering the question even though it had sounded more like 'hut pen?,' and even Dean didn't know what that meant. And Sam was using fancy words that Dean was pretty sure he wouldn't understand if he was sober and whole and not being pumped full of enough drugs to knock out a baby elephant. Something about infections and surgeries, and IV antibiotics. Dean knew he should stick around for the rest of the explanation, but really, they'd just given him a sedative or something, so, screw being rude. Dean needed to sleep again.

So he did.

* * *

Voices whispering again. Couldn't these people just take the conversation outside when he was sleeping?

"He is awake." And okay, that was a bit disturbing. Especially since he hadn't finished figuring that out for himself yet.

"You need to go. He's not ready to deal with you yet." Oh, what now? The cops? The Feds? I mean, it must have been pretty interesting trying to explain his condition to a bunch of doctors. What did Sam say any way? He'd been a POW? He'd gotten involved in some really kinky shit?

"As you say. I shall go now. But you must leave soon. It is not safe here anymore."

And now Dean was curious. He opened his eyes but Sam was standing by himself.

"Who's that?"

"No one." Right. Sam had been having a conversation with no one. And Dean happened to hear both sides. Dean knew that if he wasn't so drugged he'd be really pissed right then.

"Sam." He poured his irritation and anger into that word.

"It'll keep, all right?" And Dean figured that Sam had a point. He didn't even really remember what he was asking about anyway.

"Gotta go?"

"Not yet." And Sam looked like he meant it, so Dean stopped worrying and drifted off again.

* * *

It went on like that for some indefinite period of time. Weird fever dreams punctuated by brief forays into consciousness. Pain and Sam the only constants as he worked his way toward coherence.

So the first time he woke up coherent, Dean just spent some time just watching Sam sleep. Sam was slouched down in the cushioned metal hospital chair, his head forward in a position that was going to cause a tremendous amount of neck pain when he woke up. His mouth was open to accommodate the soft snores. The whole picture proved just how exhausted his brother must be.

"Sam." He was still croaking, but he wasn't slurring as badly, so Dean counted it as a win. Either they'd lowered his dosage or switched his meds entirely. Since there wasn't an inordinate amount of agony, he figured that they were still giving him something potent. It just might not be tons of the good stuff anymore. Which was good because he was ready to wake up for more than two minutes at a time now.

Sam stirred but didn't wake, so Dean decided to shake him a bit. Of course, his left hand was covered from his fingertips to his shoulder with bandages and casts. He couldn't even feel when he made contact with Sam's wrist.

Sam jumped up. Literally. He went from sleep to standing and coiled so fast Dean's head was spinning. He was looking everywhere but at Dean, swiveling his head back and forth like a searchlight. Hypervigilance at its very best.

"Easy tiger." And that got Sam's attention. His little brother relaxed a bit and sat back down.

"Hey!" Sam smiled at him, making Dean realize how long it had been since he'd seen his brother smile. More than a year, probably. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got trampled by the elephant in the room, right after I got hit by an asteroid. You?"

"That's pretty much how you look, too." And Dean didn't miss how Sam had dodged his question. But that was okay. He'd let little brother get away with it for now.

"Dude, did they mess up my face? Because that's just not okay at all."

That question didn't earn him the 'jerk' he'd been seeking. Sam wouldn't look him in the eye and Dean was figuring that he wasn't going to really like the answer.

So Dean did what he did best-glossed right over the issue. He really didn't want to think about how bad they'd fucked him up if Sam wasn't going to hit him with some snide comment about how they'd only managed to improve him blah blah blah, so he said, "Oh well. Chicks dig scars, right?"

Sam swallowed and looked at him. Crap, he was going to say something serious, and then Dean was going to have to look for himself because...dude, it was his _face!_ "The doctor promised that the scar would be negligible."

And...just... _fuck!_

"How bad?"

"It looks great."

"Let me see."

"Dean—"

"Sam."

Sam sighed. He was aggravated, and hey, that might be a new record. Dean would have to figure out if he'd ever managed to push Sam from concerned to pissed in under a minute before. Thought about it for two seconds before deciding that, yep, he definitely had. Probably often. But at least 'Annoyed Sam'™ had stopped arguing and he was getting a mirror and handing it over and now that he could see, Dean really wasn't sure he wanted to look.

"Just take it," said Annoyed Sam. Dean may have been a ton of things, but cowardly wasn't one of them. So he took the mirror.

Sam was right. He really did look like he got stomped by an elephant. He barely even recognized the pale, thin, bruised face staring back at him. He'd looked better right after his electrocution and he'd been _dying_ then. After a minute, Dean decided that he'd probably looked better after the hell hounds had ripped him apart last year than he did right now, and that time he'd actually been _dead._ But he wasn't dying (he thought), or dead (obviously) now so, there was a chance of improvement this time. The really jarring thing was the line of stitches from his hairline to his right eye. Not so much because he looked a little like Frankenstein's monster sans spark plugs. It was more that he'd forgotten that he'd almost had that eye sliced right out of his head by a very sharp and vicious blade. Yeah, he would have been happier if that particular memory had stayed repressed.

Sam was gnawing on his cuticle - a rather disgusting nervous habit that he'd never fully broken - and just waiting for something bad to happen. Maybe Sam figured Dean would throw a fit ala amputation. To be honest, the idea had more than occurred to Dean. But he hadn't survived Hell to come back and survive a whole new hell, just to cry about some stitches and bruising. Besides, he still had his eye which was a huge plus here. So, he decided to give best smartass smirk, winked and said, " _Sammy_...you had me worried for a minute."

Sam beamed at him with what could only be relief. "Jerk."

To which Dean could only retort, "Bitch."

"You really do look like crap, you know."

"Well at least I have an excuse. Dude, have you looked at yourself in this mirror lately? You could pack your gear in those bags under your eyes." The aforementioned eyes rolled. "Dude, I'll heal up and have a cool scar. All you're going to have is that ridiculous hair and a limp from sleeping in a crappy chair."

Sam didn't snipe back at him. He got all serious and opened his mouth to say something that Dean really didn't have the energy to deal with. Dean decided to launch a preemptive strike. "You should go and get some real sleep, Sam. You look more exhausted than me and I'm on morphine."

Sam's mouth snapped shut. His brow furrowed in frustration. He shot back, "Demerol."

"Whatever Mr. Know-It-All." Dean was flagging. He was running out of steam here, drugs, pain and exhaustion mixing to put him into another fifteen hour semi-coma.

Sam tried to smile at him, but he failed. Now that the immediate crisis had passed and Dean had regained consciousness, awkward had pretty much taken over the room. Dean tried to figure out what to say. 'What did you do on your Summer vacation' was a bit flippant, even for Dean, and would probably only amp Sam up from Annoyed to Pissed. 'How's it going' seemed a bit wrong. 'Great weather' wouldn't even fly considering Dean had no idea about the weather. He didn't even know what month it was for that matter, and asking would probably just get depressing and lead them into a conversation that Dean would be just as happy to put off until two weeks after hell froze over.

So Dean decided to stick with what was comfortable: total denial and avoidance.

"Go get some real sleep, Sam. " Dean didn't mean for it to come out like an order. Somehow, it still did.

Sam shook his head. "No. "

Typical. Dean felt the battle of wills starting and just didn't want to go there. He was so very not up to it. He tried appealing to reason. "Look, one of us should be on our game." It would be months before Dean was anywhere near 75%.

Sam's look was inscrutable. "I'm good, Dean. And I'm not going anywhere until you're out of here."

That woke Dean up, got his complete attention. Because there were only two reasons that Sam wouldn't leave him alone in a hospital to go to sleep for a night. And since Dean was pretty sure he was past the imminent death part of this journey, that only left one reasonable explanation. The one that explained that hypervigilance.

"Are they coming here? They got away? They're coming back?" And if he hadn't been so panicked, he would have been embarrassed by the rapid fire questions and high pitched shriek in his voice. Dean pushed himself up on rubber band arms, reached for IV lines to yank. Just because Dean wasn't a coward didn't mean that he was a masochist, and just because he'd endured two different versions of hell, didn't mean that he would lay around and wait to get dragged off to another one. He pulled at the tape, trying to get the line out of his hand...

"No, no, no. " Huge hands grabbed his fingers. Dean tugged pulled, dodged, kept picking at the ends of the tape securing the catheter in place. "Dean. _DEAN!_ " Sam raised his voice, hands covering Dean's own to stop the movements. "Dean, stop. Relax. They're gone. They aren't coming back."

Dean relaxed but wasn't relieved. Knew he shouldn't be by the look on Sam's face. "But..." he prompted.

"But...I'm not sure if there are others, and I'm not leaving you alone in a hospital. Okay?"

_Others? Why the hell would there be others?_

"Okay?" Sam repeated, obviously expecting Dean to answer him. Dean had a ton of questions, but they could wait. They didn't matter. Sam had his back, and they'd deal with the rest later.

"Okay. So let's get the hell out of here already. I hate hospitals."

"Not yet. You need time."

"I'm fine." Sam's jaw dropped, eyes popping in what could only be disbelief. Dean took a brief glance down his withered frame, took in the casts covering one half of his extremities, and the bruises covering everything else. "All right," Dean corrected, "maybe not fine." Sam's look was sarcastic enough to piss Dean off. "But I don't need to be here anymore."

"Dean—"

"No, really, Sam. I get it. Alright? I'm fucked up. I know that. But I don't need to be in a hospital to lay in a bed. And once I'm out of here, you can sleep in an actual bed, too."

"Dean, it's not safe at Bobby's and I'm not sure who else can be trusted." Sam looked like he was dancing around something, unsure exactly what to say or do.

Ah. Dean got it now. Sam wasn't sure where they stood - if they were going to go their separate ways again once Dean was out of the hospital. If Dean had changed his mind. To be fair, Dean wasn't really sure where they stood either. All he knew was he was beaten, bone weary and being hunted.

God, he really wasn't up for a lifetime movie network moment. He didn't want to have to talk this out right now, when his head was stuffed with cotton. He decided to be as honest as possible.

"We're better off going to ground. I don't want to put Bobby back in the line of fire."

The look on Sam's face was difficult to interpret. Disbelief, relief, with a hint of bitch-face. Dean just kept hoping that Sam wouldn't want to have a whole heart-to-heart. Dean was in no shape for it.

"Dean—"

And oh God! There it was...the 'we have to talk' tone.

"We have to talk." Dean would grin if his face didn't hurt so goddamn much.

"No, Sam. We don't." Sam opened his mouth to argue, so Dean cut him off. "I'm not saying never, all right. Just, let it be for now. Okay?"

"But—"

"Really, Sam. Just leave it."

Sam looked miserable. So miserable that Dean just knew that there would have to be some discussion here. "Look, the things that went down. It's done. Right? Let's just...you know, let it go."

"How can we—"

"Stop. All right? Things were said and done that can't be taken back here. We're not good, but we're better. Right?"

Sam's eyes were bright and wet, and oh please, Dean just couldn't deal with Sammy tears right now.

Sam didn't cry, but it was a near thing. He nodded, swallowed and said, "Right."

"Right." Dean muttered, eyes fluttering, exhaustion taking hold. "We'll get there, all right?"

Sam didn't look happy, which was good, because Dean wasn't happy either. But he was better. "Now go get me some clothes. I wanna get out of here and get a cheeseburger. I'm starved."

"I'll make you a deal. Twenty-four more hours and we're gone." Sam gave him his most serious, earnest face.

Dean immediately wanted to argue, but decided against it. He was exhausted just from being awake for fifteen minutes. He wasn't really up to the great escape right now. Not to mention he could use another day of really good painkillers. But total capitulation just didn't suit him. "I'll stay if I can have a cheeseburger."

"How about you hold down water and JELLO first? Then we'll talk cheeseburgers."

Sam always had to have the last word. Dean usually let him have it, too. Especially when he was three seconds from unconsciousness.

"Sleep, Dean. I've got watch."

Dean slept.

* * *

Epilogue to follow...


	10. Death’s Dream Kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am here to deliver judgment," said the stranger.
> 
> "Your punishment is to lay in this hell of your own making."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this little story, and look forward to any feedback/critique.

-Epilogue-  
Death's Dream Kingdom

He was so cold. Too cold for sure, considering the inferno that had been his house was still raging not fifty feet from him. He wouldn't live through this, he knew. But at least the incessant cold had granted a reprieve from the pain by finally numbing him.

He didn't know how much time had passed since the house had exploded. He still couldn't quite figure out what had happened, how he'd been bested so easily. He'd planned everything out so carefully. The pain inside had been overwhelming, almost tipped him into unconsciousness. Then he'd come face to face with the demon. Gotten beat while he was down, knocked into blissful unconsciousness.

When he came to again there was someone squatting next to him. Pale skin, blue eyes, light hair, wearing a long trench coat, and Mac had no idea who this guy was, but he was happy to see him all the same.

"Help us," he gasped, blood burbling on his lips.

The stranger cocked his head then looked up as if he were listening to someone else. When he finally focused those eyes on Mac again, Mac felt dread pool in his belly.

"I am here to deliver judgment," said the stranger. Pale fingers closed over Mac's eyes and the whole world spun for a second. The fingers lifted and the flicker of firelight was gone; the grass was gone from beneath him. Mac blinked and tried to focus, but couldn't see anything. Could only smell the stink of his storm cellar.

"How did I get here?"

"It is not your fate to die tonight." For some reason, the stranger's statement wasn't a comfort.

"What are you?" The stranger ignored him, just kept talking.

"You have been judged and found wanting." The stranger stood, and Roy could see Duke laying on the mat, writhing. "Your punishment is to lay in this hell of your own making."

"Wait!" Mac yelled.

But the stranger disappeared.

"Reflect on your actions."

"You can't do this!"

"It is not my place to offer mercy. Ask for Mercy and perhaps it will be granted you. You have time before you'll stand judged again." Then true darkness descended as the doors were sealed above.

* * *

Upstate New York. Eight Weeks later.

Eight weeks after he was freed from captivity, Dean was finally moving under his own power. The plaster cast on his hand had been replaced with a soft cast and splint. Doctors were hopeful that the limb wouldn't need more surgery, but full use might never return.

His foot would never be the same, but doctors considered it a miracle that he still had his foot. Dean took his pain in stride, keeping with his character. His appetite returned, though it was nearly a month before he could actually eat that sought after cheeseburger. Dean had started regaining some of the weight he'd lost in his month of captivity and his two week long hospital stay.

The circles under Sam's eyes had finally started to fade, though he still slept only a few hours a day. He kept vigil during the nights, keeping an ever watchful eye for any uninvited guests.

They waited and healed, healed and waited.

_It is nearly time._

"He is not ready. He is still not healed."

 _It is nearly time. You must prepare_.

"He cannot yet. He is too weak. In too much pain still."

_He has passed through hell and earth and hell again. He is tested. He is ready._

Castiel sighed, knowing that he would have to obey. The War had come...

* * *

~fin~

Story originally posted on Fanfiction.net between May 10, 2009 and September 9, 2009. I corrected a few obvious punctuation errors, but otherwise, the story is the same as it was 11 years ago. 

I would be interested in feedback on this 11 year old story, whether you like it or hate it. And if you don't feel like commenting, I still hope you enjoy this little story.


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